The Ring O'Bells
by E. S. Young
Summary: The former Commodore had not been thinking when he sought out the services of one of Tortuga's many jezebels, the rum having diluted his mind as well as loosened his tongue. An unconventional Whorrington.
1. An Essay

**The Ring O' Bells**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Foremost, an Analytical and Slightly Defensive Essay**

Well, here it is: the _Pirates of the Caribbean _story I swore that I would never write. I must admit, this isn't quite what I had planned. Okay, so it's absolutely nothing like what I had planned. You see, when I first latched on to the fandom, I was a Captain Jack fan through and through. I had several stories in mind involving him and a terrible OC, though luckily I never had the initiative to write them down and post them on this web site. However, the fact that I never _did _write any _Pirates _fanfiction always bothered me and I was hoping that, upon seeing _Dead Man's Chest_, things would change and I would finally come to write a story that I was…comfortable with, at least. Needless to say, after seeing the new movie, I _have _found my motivation, however unlikely it may be.

Commodore Norrington has always appealed to me. Despite being a slightly dense fourteen-year-old at the time, when I first saw _Curse of the Black Pearl _I noticed how much of a gentleman the Commodore was when he stepped aside and allowed Elizabeth to be with the man she truly loved. Then, as if he hadn't proven his generosity already, he granted Captain Jack (an infamous pirate who has avoided arrest for years) a day's head start even though he could have easily caught up with Jack and hanged him. Quite a nice thing to do, really, and I've always brought that moment up whenever I happen upon a piece of fanfiction in which Norrington is portrayed negatively.

But, for the most part, my attention was devoted to pirates, not naval officers. Now, however, after viewing _Dead Man's Chest_, things have greatly changed. I was, to say the least, highly intrigued by our dear Commodore's terrible downfall and complete (albeit, understandable) change of character. I'm also afraid to say that I was inspired at the same time. What can I say? I have a thing for men that have fallen from grace – particularly if they are complex individuals, which brings me to my next point.

After realizing that I had become a Norrington fangirl (it literally happened overnight; I saw DMC at midnight, and was searching for Norrie-fic three hours later), I was prompted to watch the first movie again – something I am very glad for. It made me realize how complicated Norrington is and also that he is easily one of the more realistic characters in the films. Everyone in the movie is an archetype: We know that Will is the hero, that Elizabeth is the damsel-in-distress-turned-pirate-wench (I'm sad to say that I saw it coming), and that Captain Jack, as enigmatic as he may be, is charming, witty, clever, flamboyant, malapert, womanizing, verbose, conniving, and a number of other lovely adjectives that I don't possess the time to type out. They aren't necessarily _predictable_, but all in all, everyone is as they appear to be; no one really tries to hide who they truly are...except for Norrington.

For the most part he appears to be callous, authoritative, stuffy, and arrogant. However, upon closer inspection, one can see that he is really kind, selfless, refined, and even self-deprecating. Several of these traits, at least for me, are most noticeable when he proposes to Elizabeth. He babbles on for quite a bit before he finally pops the question – a clear sign that he is not boring as many seem to think, but rather uptight, and not in the conventional sense. Not only that, but he openly admits to being nervous after misinterpreting Elizabeth's exclamation of "I can't breathe."

Now, let's reflect on several matters for a moment:

For one thing, we get the impression that Norrington is a much-admired figure in Port Royal. He is the scourge of piracy in the Caribbean, protector of the people, and, as Governor Swann mentions in one of the movie's deleted scenes, the one responsible for improving and bringing culture to Port Royal. Promising, noble, genteel, and wealthy – he is the epitome of man in the 1700s, as well as perfect husband material. At this point I could explain why his personality makes him all the more ideal, however, since he tends to project the image of being stoic and imperious, I doubt that many of the people in Port Royal know the man behind the uniform.

Secondly, in those times, before a man asked for a woman's hand in marriage, he usually needed to first ask for her father's permission – and it's obvious that _this _man has Elizabeth's dad on his side; Governor Swann is practically Norrington's personal cheerleader. Basically, Elizabeth has no way out – whether she wants to be his wife or not, it isn't really her decision to make (although I doubt that Norrington would go through with the wedding if he knew that she was going to be unhappy with him, but more on that later).

So let's recap. Norrington is polite, righteous, and intelligent; he is a powerful figure in the community; not only is he wealthy but he is attractive; and he has an honorable profession and has just been promoted to Commodore; what's more, Papa Swann is constantly pimping him out. Now, honestly, what does this man have to be worried about?

Rejection, perhaps? It is evident in that he didn't want to marry her simply because society expected it. It wouldn't have been a marriage of convenience; he truly loved her. If he was willing to drop his act of stoicism and admit his feelings (however hesitantly), one has to imagine that Elizabeth must have meant a great deal to him. His anxiety only fuels my suspicion that he is very hard on himself. In relation to this, I also get the feeling that, while he's proud of his promotion, he doesn't think he deserves to be a commodore (the fact that he's so young – twenty-six during the first film, according to Disney – doesn't help matters, but adds more stress), and therefore he pressures himself to do everything right. Nevertheless, despite his efforts, he never thinks it's enough and thus he's never satisfied with himself.

"By remembering that I serve others, Mr. Sparrow, not only myself." This quote alone makes me fail to understand how anyone could think that Norrington is only trying to further himself throughout _Curse of the Black Pearl_. The man was willing to jump off of a staggeringly high battlement to save Elizabeth from drowning, even though he knew full well that he could have been killed in the process. Later on in the film, when Barbossa and Company began their attack on Port Royal, Norrington's first act was to see that any civilians were out of danger, and he ordered the Governor to get away from the fort. Then, in the final scene, we saw that he was willing to give up the woman he loves because he knew that she was in love with another. Now, really, how can he be called anything but selfless?

Lastly, we come to the conclusion of the film – the part where I completely converted into a Norrington fan. Because of this scene, I do not doubt for one second that he was truly in love with Elizabeth. Why? Listen carefully when he asks her if she is in love with Will and not him; there is only a slight tremor in his voice but it is enough to reveal that the man's heart is being broken. It was then that I realized (after emitting a shamefully fan-girlish cry of "Aww, that's so cute!) how flawed our dear Commodore really was, that there was so much more to him than would meet the eye, and that I was, like it or not, going to write at least one piece of fanfiction about him. Luckily, it didn't take long for the ideas to come.

As many have already said, Norrington's character changes drastically in _Dead Man's Chest_. In fact, it would appear that he has done a complete 180°. He is filthy, snarky, vindictive, depressed, drunk, and even selfish. Out of character from the man we saw in the first film? Some might say so. But let us take into account Norrington's situation. He is a man who has lost everything of importance: First, the woman he loved; then his commission, he undoubtedly put forth a great amount of effort towards if he achieved the rank of commodore at such a young age; the respect of society; his honor; his dignity; and, it would seem, even himself. Because of this, he has been reduced to a bitter shell of a man with a thirst for vengeance as well as alcohol.

So, why did he steal the heart – an uncharacteristically selfish act? Consider this: Norrington is, as we have already established many a time, a man that has always put others before himself. However, now he no longer has the tools – a successful career, a wonderful reputation, the respect of many, etc. – to do this, what is he to do? In a desperate situation such as his, he _has _no choice but to look out for himself. And yet, despite his seemingly selfish actions, there are still moments in _Dead Man's Chest _where Norrington serves others, a perfect example being when he tells Elizabeth to get into the boat and leave without him. Plan or no, he could have very well been killed, and even in a rushed and panicked time, he was still concerned for her welfare.

But he still gave the heart to Beckett – one of the bad guys. Does this mean that Norrington has finally crossed over "the dark side?" Somehow I doubt this very much.

He handed the heart over to Beckett with the intent of obtaining what he needed the most: a pardon and the letters of Marque. However, he must know that no good will come from leaving an object so powerful in the hands of a man like Beckett, _especially_ when he still has Elizabeth to consider. If he has even the smallest shred of belief that she is still alive, then Beckett's having the heart puts her in grave danger, as she is not only wanted but is now at sea – which, with the heart, Beckett will have absolute control of. If Norrington's continued devotion to her is to be believed, then why would he deliberately put her into harms way? He has already proven time and again that he is far too intelligent for that, not to mention the fact that he has been trained in strategy tactics. It may just be me, but I can't help but suspect that Norrington has a plan to retrieve the heart and set things right.

However, I have yet to hit upon several important issues – issues that the writers have, it would seem, left up to our own imaginations. Shortly after viewing _Dead Man's Chest _for a second time, my interest in our dear ex-Commodore increased and questions began to take shape. I wondered what Norrington was up to in Tortuga before _the Black Pear's _arrival? How on Earth did he survive there, surrounded by enemies that would, more than likely, have killed him on the spot? And what, exactly, could have prompted him to join the crew of a _pirate ship?_ Needless to say, I needed answers, and since the Disney wasn't about to give any, I decided to form my own conclusions. Thus, this story came to be.

۞۞۞

**Disclaimer:** The movie _Pirates of the Caribbean _and all of its characters and the like are property of Disney. Any unfamiliar characters that may appear are mine…unless they aren't mine, in which case I will most certainly post another disclaimer. Any places, facts, or objects that may appear are real and/or true, despite how bizarre some things may sound. But then, of course, we _are_ talking about a world where things such as curses, undead pirates, fish people, and other sorts of supernatural craziness exist, so really, is anything going to seem all that far-fetched?


	2. A Grievous Error

**Chapter I **

**_A Grievous Error_**

"_Having nothing, nothing can he lose_."

–_King Henry the Sixth_, Part III (Act III, Scene III)

۞۞۞

Whore.

It wasn't even pleasant to listen to. Such a harsh, guttural term that grated on the ears… When spoken, it came out as more of a cough than a word, a vile hacking that one would prefer not to make in public. Yet he had. He had lifted his eyes from his tankard, spotted one of the…ladies of pleasure…and beckoned her to his table, openly addressing her.

And this was simply splendid: The jezebel had actually heard him – worse yet, she had decided to obey! Dear God, what had he been thinking? Of course, he was well aware that he, in fact, had _not _been thinking, the rum having diluted his mind as well as loosened his tongue. The idea to call upon this woman's services had occurred to him after his third drink: What if, rather than provoking the tavern patrons and starting a fight in another attempt to fulfil his wish for death, he aimed not to die, but to enjoy himself for one night?

He closed his eyes, regretting his ever-growing stupidity.

She was sauntering over to him, her hips swaying in a manner that must have been alluring to some men, though he failed to find it the least bit appealing. Lord, what he would have given for her to walk past him, for her to ignore him, the filthy drunkard, and tend to some other patron. It was a foolish hope, however, for her come-hither gaze and saucy gait were only for him.

A tenseness was building near his midsection.

He took a long swig from his tankard as she inched closer and for the millionth time he demanded to know what on this miserable earth had possessed him to call her over? He had no need for her…particular…talents. Every ounce of dignity had been stripped from him, yes, but that did not excuse him from behavior such as _this!_ Of course, it was certainly not uncommon for a man of rank to indulge in sinful activities with a woman who was not his wife…however, he had always thought it below him. A despicable thing, whoring…one that should have been reserved for thieves, pirates, and other such scum of the earth, not a commodore of the H. M. Royal Navy.

_Former _commodore, he reminded himself, the word pounding scathingly in his head like a taunt that a contemptible child would adopt. It was then that he decided that 'former' was not a pleasant word either.

However, with this thought came a bitter realization: His honor was gone along with his title. If he were to spend one night – only one – with this woman…would his position be affected? Would society think any less of him than they already did? Hardly. Because of hisfoolishness, Andrew Gillette and Theodore Groves, his two closest friends, had been taken by the sea. His family, still living in England, most likely hadn't heard the news of the disgraceful scandal involving Lord Norrington's youngest son, and they certainly would never be aware of his one-night stand with a prostitute. He doubted that it would change his father's opinion of him, in any case, for the man had always seen him as a disappointment. Long dead, his mother would never know – yet another stroke of ill fortune that was his fault – and for the first time he found himself thankful for this. He couldn't bear the thought of shaming her.

Yet…none of them would ever know.

But he would. Even thought he had long since cared if God condemned him to eternal damnation, though he told himself that any wanton pursuits would go unnoticed in Tortuga, though he could not depreciate himself for the career path this woman had chosen…he knew that he would not allow his dealings with her to go past his table.

In spite of every hopeless aspect of his life, he was still a gentleman. A rancid, disheveled, intoxicated one but a gentleman nonetheless, and he knew that that damnable trace of rectitude, the lingering thread of who he once was, would keep him from sharing a bed with this woman. Of course, she would be furious when he informed her that he no longer needed her, sending her off without payment, but that attitude would quickly dissolve once she found a new customer. Yes, that was exactly what would happen, of this he was certain. After all, he had yet to have one of his plans go awry, save for the last two.

She sat down.

۞۞۞

As you may have noticed, I've chosen to write most of this from Norrington's viewpoint, which, unfortunately, means that I often have to refrain from lapsing into my normal writing style which is much more flowery. Damn James and his simplistic-yet-eloquent manner of speaking! But I suppose this is what I must do if I want to keep him in character – I hope I've managed to do that, by the way. If I'm not, I know I can trust you guys to tell me so. ;)

**Notes**

_The Ring O'Bells_ – I finally decided that I wanted this story to be named after whatever tavern James and his wench met in. I knew that wanted something that was interesting but not cliché, so when searching for bar names, I came across this one and it just stuck with me. I'm assuming that the Ring O'Bells _is_ an actual tavern, somewhere, though I am not entirely certain of this.

A despicable thing, whoring – I've always thought that, although it was normal for men to go whoring and keep mistresses, Norrington would disapprove of the idea – possibly because he respects women so much. Whatever the reason, I just have a difficult time picturing our darling former-Commodore with a prostitute. But maybe that's just me.

yet another stroke of ill fortune that was his fault – this story does not focus very much on James's past. However, eventually – most likely in the sequel – James's blaming himself for his mother's death will be explained.

After all, he had yet to have one of his plans go awry, save for the last two – the last two plans being marrying Elizabeth and capturing Captain Jack, both of which, of course, failed miserably.

**A Simple Request from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


	3. How Lovely

**Chapter II**

_**How Lovely**_

"_Beauty's the thing that counts in women; red lips and black eyes are better than brains_."

– Mary J. Elmendorf

۞۞۞

"Evenin'."

He merely nodded, draining his tankard. His plan vanished with the rum, becoming nothing more than dregs that remained at the bottom of his mind.

In all his years he had never gotten what one could call a decent look at a whore. Granted, upon making lievtenant Charles, his second oldest brother, had decided that the best way to celebrate his promotion was to treat him to an evening at a brothel. But the women there – clean, well-spoken, and tastefully dressed if a bit risqué – were nothing like the women of Tortuga. Now that a harlot was sitting mere inches from him, he had regrets about not seeing one sooner. She was, simply put, repulsive. He would have liked to have begun his analysis with her attire, but instead found his eyes fixated on something much more unnerving. He had, of course, been raised knowing that it was rude to stare, however, when a woman was wearing a bodice so low it was nearly nonexistent and had her – in this case, moderately sized – bosom hoisted up as high as it would go, he found it difficult _not _to gawk.

When he was finally able to rip his gaze from her chest region, he took in what could have once been considered a dress that was a horrid shade of green. It was as if she had deliberately chosen the most unbecoming color for herself. Upon closer inspection, he could make out several purple splotches against the verdant fabric – no doubt from when she had, in a drunken stupor, dribbled wine down her front. How lovely.

Rather than observe her face next, he moved his eyes to the top of her head. At first it appeared to be nothing but a great, dark blur, but quickly the mass began to take shape. Tangles of frizzing curls had been piled sloppily atop her head, though several pieces had broken free of the bird's nest and were hanging in sparse clumps about her face.

And that _face…_

When he looked upon that face, the quintessential prostitute started back at him. From beneath a pair of heavily painted brows, dark eyes regarded him hungrily from behind a black mask of kohl, the corners of them puckering slightly as she smiled. A faux beauty mark hovered beneath her left eye, boldly glaring at him. On each cheek bloomed twin vermilion patches that only succeeded in making her nose appear more prominent. Lastly, he came to her mouth and barely concealed a grimace. Bright red, it curved to form a smirk, revealing teeth that were a pale yellow from poor hygiene, occasionally spotted here and there with rouge from her lips.

"Y'know, I can't do my job if I dunno what it is I'm s'pposed t'be doin'."

The low, mildly amused voice dragged him out of the depths of his mind, bringing his scrutiny to an abrupt end. The whore widened her sickening grin, no doubt mistakenly assuming that she had caught him in the midst of undressing her mentally. Far from it, he thought, cringing internally at the film of sweat that covered her chest, neck, and visage, gleaming in the candle-lit tavern. He cleared his throat.

"My apologies, madam," he offered uncomfortably. "I'm afraid my mind was elsewhere."

She simply laughed – rather, made a low, humming noise that could be taken as a laugh. Odd when he had been expecting her to bray or cackle or, at the very least, giggle idiotically.

"'Madam?'" she snorted. "Lovey, if I were a madam, _I'd _be runnin' my _own_ place an' sendin' onna _my _girls over here t'entertain you. But, seein' how that most certainly _isn't _th' case, you _are my_ employer. An' as my employer there's no need t'apologize."

He was taken aback by her bluntness, though logic told him that he should not have been, given that she must have been raised on this squalid island where pirates roamed and whores were plentiful. Here one did whatever was necessary to survive, including sacrificing one's own honor to sleep with loathsome creatures such as himself. Then again, despite an ethnic abundance, honor held no meaning on Tortuga.

"Very well," he began, taking care in selecting his words. "What _will_ you have me call you, if 'madam' is not to your liking?"

"Oh, _I _get t'chose this time?" she murmured to herself, leaving him to wonder what she meant by that. "Hmm… S'ppose I'll be Yvette, t'night. I've always fancied that name. S'French, innit?" she asked, suddenly looking up at him and clearly expecting his input.

"I believe so," he replied warily. What on Earth was she playing at, giving him a false name?

"I've always wanted t'visit France," she said thoughtfully before letting out a short laugh. "O'course, how likely is that?"

"Highly unlikely, I would think," he muttered dryly, finding her uncouth manner to be slightly irksome. Perhaps insults would be the quickest way to rid himself of her? He watched, unmoved as her painted face darkened at his frigid sarcasm.

"You're one t'talk," she snapped, pointedly eyeing his ragged appearance. "Thinkin' you can get t'know me jus' by lookin' at my face – tell me, have y'taken a gander at yerself as of late? I'm no braggart, but I'm a right pleasant sight next t'you. An' I'll have you know that normally I'd hold my tongue in situations like this…unless, o'course, I could tell straight away that th' person who insulted me was nothin' more than a mis'rable, penniless cad what thought he could get a free romp outta me."

He bristled, feeling his irritation melt away only to be replaced by seething hatred. How dare she, a whore, have the nerve to remark on his countenance? He no longer cared if he offended her, for she, who knew _nothing _yet spoke with such confidence, had plunged her verbal knife into him more deeply than she could have imagined.

His voice was quiet, but with an dark edge, as if he was speaking through the threat of impending fury.

"Tell me, Miss Yvette, had it occurred to you that I have no choice in the matter? Did it ever cross your simple mind that I _despise_ having to sit in this hovel, drowning myself in rum and accepting the invitations of _whores?_ Did you take any one of those notions into consideration before you decided to belittle me so, or were you simply acting on impulse, as I suspect?"

He stood abruptly, not allowing her to answer.

"And as far as my being penniless is concerned…" He reach into his tattered naval coat and unearthing several coins, thrusting them in her stern face. "How, pray tell, did I acquire those drinks?"

That said, he turned on his heel and left her where she was: staring dumbly at an empty bottle of rum.

۞۞۞

**Notes**

Charles, his second oldest brother – once again, more of James's past that will be revealed at a later date. Hopefully it doesn't seem out of place here.

"Oh, _I_ get to chose this time…" – of course, we all know what she means. Yes, that's right: role-playing! It did exist during the Colonial era, and besides, I can't help but get the feeling that, on Tortuga, anything is possible. Also, this line helps to put emphasis on Norrington's (for lack of better word) ignorance as far as women and sex go. This is not to say that I think he's a virgin, just that, while he would not be completely unaware of sexual deviancies, he would (or used to) consider himself too respectable to actually indulge in anything of the sort.

Yvette – just to dispel any confusion: No, this is not her real name. That little matter _will _be cleared up eventually, however. Erm, kinda. You'll see what I mean soon enough.

**A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


	4. Beneath the Stars

**Chapter III**

_**Beneath the Stars**_

Just to forewarn you, there is a switching of point of views about halfway through this chapter. Oh, and things may get a little PG-13 (gasp!) after that. The warning is mostly because there are mentioned several rather morbid topics that might upset the kiddies. That, and the fact that this is a Whorington, after all. However, we all know how smutty I am, so is there really any need to worry?

Also, to Madam Librarian: You didn't sound ticky at all! In fact, I encourage comments like yours – that's what that Author's Request/Reminder exists, after all. And I'm glad you pointed that out because it made me realize something: While I _was _aware that whoring wasn't just for pirates but for nobility as well, I'd completely forgotten to mention why Norrington (or, at least, my version) is so against it. If you reread Chapter I, you'll see that I made the necessary corrections and added a note. Thanks for telling me!

۞۞۞

The world was spinning as he was thrown into an alley by the patrons of _the Ring O' Bells_. He lay on his side, gasping whenever a boot connected with his midsection. A hand reached down for him, the callused skin grating against his throat as he was hauled roughly upward and forced to look into the gnarled face of a pirate. The scene before him was a blur, the colors melted together to form nothing. Blackness crept in along the edges.

He was vaguely aware of being shaken, of the pirate spiting an insult at him as he was sharply returned to consciousness. The man's fingers were still curled around his neck.

"You got a death wish, struttin' around in that getup an' sayin' what you like." He glared in disgust at the stained, ragged naval uniform. "It's a wonder you've lasted this long."

"Why not kill me now, then, sir? Be done with me."

The man sneered at the challenge and released him, straightening up as he fell backwards.

"You ain't worth it."

He spat at the fallen naval officer and turned. His fellow pirates followed, their savage jeers becoming nothing more than a murmur in the distance.

۞۞۞

This was a typical night for him, now. It usually began by spending a good portion of the evening curled up inside a bottle of rum with only his thoughts for company. He would think of the past; of all his failures; of the loss of his mother and his father's despair; of himself as a midshipman and that first fateful encounter with pirates that had resulted in his oldest brother's death and had driven him to rid the seas of such nefarious, licentious creatures; of Elizabeth, happy with her fiancé and not thinking of him; of the loss of _the Interceptor_; of that damnable pirate and the chase that lost him good men, two of his dearest friends, another ship, and himself.

These thoughts, with the aid of the rum, would cause his blood and anger to rise. He would provoke several drunkards until they started a fight where he neither desired nor intended to be the victor. He did nothing to stop the pain he brought upon himself night after night, not when he knew he deserved it. And so he went on like that, the days extending into weeks and the weeks into months, accepting the abuse of men he would have once had arrested, hoping that they would carry out what he hadn't the courage to do.

It was true, he did have a death wish. There was nothing left for him, no hope of returning to his former life; he no longer saw a reason to continue yet he had failed, time and again, to end his life. He would lay in the gutter, exactly as he was now, or be slumped against a wall, watching as the night sky was covered in a misty veil of pink and the stars were extinguished like the trembling flames of millions of candles. He would raise his pistol to his head and all sound – every hum of the insects, every shout from the taverns – would evaporate, save for the whisper of the sea.

His hand would begin to quake, but his pistol would remain in place. He would cock it, the _click _sounding dry and hollow in his ears, and think of how simple it would be. A motion so unnoticeably small – a mere twitch of his fingers – would end it all. There would be no more remorse, no more pain; there would be nothing but blessed oblivion.

But that sweet Lethe would never come.

He was too much of a coward – he, who had once been the scourge of pirates in the Caribbean, who had gone into countless battles without hesitation, was afraid to pull the trigger. Despite how he yearned for it, craved it night and day, he could not embrace death. Defeated by his own fear, the pistol would drop to his side and he would pull his legs up to his chest, his face hidden by his knees as he waited for sleep to come and grant just a taste of that precious bliss.

۞۞۞

She smiled blissfully, paying no mind to the man on top of her. Tonight – rather, today – she would have a bed. The moment she was finished with this customer, she would have collected enough to pay for a room at one of the inns. There was even the possibility of a meal, provided that this gentleman enjoyed her services.

Bernson, she recalled, was his name. He was a large man, both vertically and horizontally, with an enormous beard that scratched whenever his lips met her flesh, as well as a dome-like head that was only covered in a layer of sweat. He was loud, rank, and clearly drunk but both his ruddy face and his demeanor were kind, even if he did insist on calling her "m'lady."

The name had a curious effect on her for she found herself saddened by it (she was no lady) and at the same time it amused her to no end – and for the same reason, no less! The ridiculousness of the title was great, yet she could not help but be the tiniest bit flattered. And it wasn't _so _bizarre a sobriquet – she had called stranger things and, anyway, she preferred it to the name of some lost lover, which had happened in the past. That always made her uncomfortable. But then, with whoring, her personal preferences weren't primary concerns. Fulfill the customer's request or starve – a simple way of looking at the business and since that was the case, she would consent to being a lady for a night if it meant having money the following morning.

His breathing was heavy, the thick and stinging scent of alcohol hitting her face. God, but this was unpleasant! She rather wished that _she _was the one on top, but, alas, she was on her back, the bruises on her shoulder blades growing with every thrust. He certainly was the lively one! Bloody rocks, she thought as a stone made her left hip's acquaintance. Would it have been such a task to rent a room? Really, she failed to see why he couldn't contain himself and had to have his way with her in an alley…

_Think of the bed_, she told herself sternly. It had been ages since she had had a full, peaceful night of rest. It mattered not if the mattress was sagging, the sheets were rough, and the pillows were lumpy. What mattered was that she could at last, after so many months, enjoy herself. It wasn't the same when a customer took her to bed. Hours after they had finished the room would still echo with their moans and the bedding would reek of man and woman and be damp with fluids from when a pair of bodies was in the throes of passion.

But when there was no physical labor involved…when no man collapsed beside her, exhausted and panting…beds were simply delightful.

A moan caught in her throat as his finger snagged on of the many knots in her hair. Fortunately, his misinterpreted, taking her strangled outcry as a sign of pleasure, and his actions instantly became more vigorous.

"Oh, yeh like that kind o'treatment, do yeh, m'lady?" he wheezed jovially, his fetid breath tainting the cool night air. She made a noncommittal noise in response. Neither yes nor no; keeping him satisfied was what mattered the most. As long as he was enjoying himself now, she could enjoy _herself_ later.

She decided that a little cry of ecstasy was in order.

"Oh!"

And again.

"_Ohh!_"

She had to commend herself – they were quite explosive towards the end. He shuddered at the climax, his breathing more labored than ever before, perspiration rolling from his gleaming brow in many rivers, collecting on his chin and nose before finally landing on her face. She could not conceal her revulsion this time and turned her head desperately. Her partner failed to notice, having collapsed on top of her, his breaths at last growing steady.

"Well!" she sighed pleasantly, the thought of a bed making it difficult to contain her giddiness. "I had a lovely evenin', dearest… I…" She swallowed, eager for her payment. "I hope that you will…say th' same?"

His only answer was a gargled snore.

Her eyes went wide.

"Darling?"

Lovely. Yes, simply marvelous. He'd exhausted himself, the oaf, and had chosen her as his mattress! Blasted man...! She tried to calm herself; no good would come from fretting…she needed to keep a level head. Of course, this proved to be rather difficult when all but her right arm and head were pinned under a triturating mass of a man.

The alley suddenly seemed much smaller than she had previously thought. Darker, quieter…

There was a faint amount of pressure within her ribcage.

Why was it she heard no music, no laughter, no shouting?

Her breathing quickened its pace, as if running for its life.

They were only just outside _the Ring O' Bells_, were they not?

Good Lord…it was as if her lungs were swelling! Or were they shrinking, withering away into little wisps of singed parchment? It was difficult to say…

Why couldn't she hear anything? Why were her eyes suddenly filled with nothing but the night sky? Goodness, but the stars were extraordinary tonight, practically afire in their brilliance…

Her chest was becoming uncomfortably tight as it filled scorching, burning, blistering heat – wood to feed the flames of her panic.

It then occurred to her, through the smoke of her blazing distress, that she might be dying.

But she was getting ahead of herself.

She couldn't possibly be _dying_. Not here; not now. After all, if she were about to meet her demise, then there would be music – the heavenly choir. Perhaps a blinding white light, as well. Gilded harps, the softly fluttering wings of angels, resplendent clouds…and divine, rapturous, celestial bliss – not darkness and fire. Unless she was one of the damned – a chilling thought.

It was impractical, she assured herself, for, despite her wicked profession, she was a devout Catholic and had been since she was a child. She attended services every Sunday at Tortuga's seedy little church and confessed regularly – she had even been baptized. Of course, one could only do so much to save one's soul from eternal hellfire…Sometimes prayers, confessions, and devotion were not enough. Still, she thought with groggy, childish irritation, she was not about to die. This thickening fog was intruding upon her normal mindset, dulling her senses and allowing her mind to wander down foolish trails where it met angels and demons and other nonsensical wraiths of her childhood. Nevertheless, even if she had not reached her end, there lingered still the irrepressible desire remove her person from beneath her employer.

With her unrestrained arm she attempted to push the snuffling lout away, imagining that he would, certainly, at the very least, awaken at the unexpected movement? Alas, no. He remained asleep, contented and peaceful, all the while unaware of her struggle.

"Lovey?" she tried again, pausing briefly to note that, during the time she had fought and overcome her fear, speaking had become quite a task. "Darling, you have to wake up – you forgot to pay me." Again she shook him and again there was no response. She bit her lip, taking in several quick, frightened breaths.

That sickening thought had somehow wormed its way into her brain, unwilling to leave her be.

"Please, please, wake up – you must wake up!"

It was as if he was crushing her words as well as her body. She knew that she could not be imagining the sound of her ribs creaking as the bone began to shatter. She thought nothing of her legs for she could no longer feel them. The hips and back screamed as they were driven into the stone and all the while contused skin whimpered at the torment. And her lungs…her poor lungs were enflamed, distending rapidly, ready to burst…

"Someone, please, I need help!"

The thought pushed forward, wanting to be heard.

"_Please!_ Dear God, please – I'm suffocating!"

Her eyes stretched to their limit she tore at him, fighting desperately before it made itself known.

"Help, please, someone…" she gasped feebly. "Please help…I can't breathe…"

She failed to quell that torturous idea. She thought that she had banished it with her sensibility but somehow the heart-rending notion had burrowed back inside her head, only now she knew that it was not a speculation, but a fact: She was dying.

She would not simply lie there until he eventually awoke. She would not stiffly rise as he blurted out a stream of apologies. She would not dust herself off, nonchalantly waving away his pleas for forgiveness, nor would she hold out her hand for the money she undoubtedly deserved. She would not retire to a ramshackle inn for the remainder of the day, sinking deep into a moldy, straw-stuffed mattress for several hours of uninterrupted paradise. Instead she would die on the dusty, unfeeling cobbles of an alleyway, just another corpse for the rats to feast upon until she was discovered at last and tossed, unceremoniously, into an unmarked grave.

The stars were so lovely tonight, she mused, at last surrendering to the mysterious, cloud-filled dreamland that lightheadedness bore. It was a place made up of the sort of things that a person neither remembered nor took the time to notice – a nonsense world filled with the tales and games one could recognize from youth, and of course stars. It was a blur of colors, dotted here and there with tiny balls of light that still glittered even as they began to fade.

۞۞۞

"Help, please, someone…" a poor gasp of a voice begged, cracking with emotion. "Please help…I can't breathe…"

His eyes flew open.

He struggled to his feet, suddenly feeling very sober. It had been those words… The last time he had heard them they had flown from the enchanting lips of his fiancée.

_Former_ fiancée, sneered the trenchant reality, making him detest the word all the more as unwanted memories were unleashed.

"_I can't breathe…_"

He had been terrified for her, as he had been that fateful day she tumbled from the battlement; when that damned Sparrow had threatened her life, using her has a human shield; when he learned that she had been kidnapped by pirates… He had always feared for her safety, placing it on a pedestal, high above the welfare of himself and others.

"_I can't breathe…_"

He had been about to reach out to take her hand – even then, amidst the turmoil and concern, thrilling at the rare contact – she had shot up. With her eyes wildly scanning the crowd she had looked beyond his confused relief to the one she truly loved. It was then that he knew: It had all been a ruse; she had never wanted to marry him, had never loved him…

If she could see him now…

_Don't_, he warned himself as he hurried down the alley. His accursed conscience would refuse him rest until he sought out the source of the commotion, daring to hope that it would be someone in distress, to believe that there was the smallest chance that he would play the hero once more, that there was a possibility of redemption in his future.

_Oh, how the mighty have fallen, _he thought with bitter sarcasm as his search came to an abrupt end.

At first sight it was, to his utter revulsion, another one of Tortuga's prostitutes servicing a rotund lowlife. Disgusted by his own pathetic state, by how desperately he wanted to help someone – as if that would make him a commodore again – he turned to leave, intent on finding a bottle of rum to comfort his shattered person. Then, he heard it again: that pleading, breathless tone – a pitiful mew – calling out to him.

"_Please…! _Don't – don't leave me…"

In the weak morning sunlight he was able to detect a faint, purplish tinct to the woman's face. His eyes went wide as he staggered back, horror-stricken. Good God – she was being suffocated!

His mind-fog was rapidly dissipating, replaced with blind valor. He moved quickly, all the while cursing his inebriation, the shaking in his legs, the clumsiness of his hands. The dirt was suddenly slick beneath his feet and he slid constantly as he attempted to shove an unconscious man off of a slowly dying woman. His body, weary from the earlier beating and weighed down by rum, was betraying him, the muscles in his back and shoulders burned at the strain, yet he pressed onward, unrelenting.

There was a loud gasping beside him – the sound of wind rushing to fill lungs that had gone without for too long. Unexpected relief washed over him when he turned to see that the air had restored to her skin a normal, healthy color. His euphoria was short-lived, however, as the woman pressed a hand to her chest, her face pinched with pain as she began to shiver.

"Are you harmed?" he asked.

She favored him with a distracted shake of her head as she gingerly got to her feet.

He frowned but moved toward her, too easily falling victim to old chivalrous habits as he removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders.

She appeared stunned, thought not ungrateful for his courtesy and even pulled the remnant of his former life closer despite its (undoubtedly) offensive odor and state. She looked up at him, grainy black trails crawling from eyes that were red with moisture. Her voice shook as she offered him an vast amount of thanks and unending gratitude, vowing that she was ever in his debt, swearing that, somehow, there must be a way to repay him.

He should have shaken his head, insisting that she think nothing of the rescue. Instead he stared at her, gaping dumbly at the irritatingly familiar dress and its hideous green color, the dilapidated tower of hair, the heaving chest, the long nose, the dark eyes that scrutinized him even now…

Yvette.

The little strumpet appeared to have recognized him at the exact same moment for she blanched and slowly closed her eyes, drawing a hand to her forehead. Though perhaps, he ventured, she was on the verge of fainting? With this thought in mind he quickly moved to assist her only to be brushed aside by a weakly fluttering hand.

"M'all right," she murmured, showing nothing to indicate that she knew who he was. "Jus' need t'breathe, is all…"

He nodded, though he doubted she noticed, and went to lean against the wall of the tavern, the excessive drinking, the fight from before, and the recent exertions having made him suffer in a state of dizzying exhaustion. Seeing this prostitute again had only increased his sorry plight, causing an angry pulsation in his left temple – one he feared would be inexorable. Perhaps, he speculated, if he just stayed put, it would all go away…the whore, the memories, the pain…

A scuffling sound near his feet.

His eyes, gummed shut with weariness, were forced open little by little as he carefully turned his head.

She hadn't gone away has he had wished. She was crouched down in front of that large, sleeping man and was busy pilfering his pockets, confiscating all she found.

"The man is _unconscious_," he stated exasperatedly. "Have you no shame?"

"Not when said man nearly killed me, no," she replied simply, turning to give him a wry grin. "I feel he owes me."

She stood up, dusting off her gaudy dress, and approached him slowly, eyes shining with renewed salaciousness. Without warning, she pressed up against him, grinning wickedly, grinding her hips into his own as he watched her with fascinated horror. Her lips were mere inches from his, her breath warm and her voice husky, barely a whisper.

"An' I owe you…"

He stiffened, words of protest stumbling over one another in their haste to escape.

"No, you – you owe me nothing."

She pouted, as unyielding as his headache.

"But I _do…_"

"_No_," he stated firmly, placing his hands on her shoulders, briefly remarking at the jutting bones, and gingerly steered her away. "I'm afraid that your…display of…gratitude is wasted, for you are presenting it to a man who has no desire for it."

"That's th' second time y've turned down my offer," she said quietly, coyly.

"If I recall correctly, the first time you were never truly _making _me an offer."

She turned to face him, lips curling upward.

"So y'do recognize me. I'd assumed as much."

"It would appear that making assumptions based on unsubstantial evidence is a habit of yours."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Would y'not call _that _makin' an assumption of yer own?"

"Perhaps," he agreed evenly. "However, unlike yourself, it is not a habit of mine."

"Says you. I'm not th' best with numbers, but I think I'm right in sayin' that makes two fer you."

"Even so, and forgive my bold words, but that estimate pales when juxtaposed with _your _list of assumptions."

She smiled with cheeky confidence.

"That's three."

He rolled his eyes, immediately wishing he had refrained from doing so – his head was already wheeling precariously; there was no need to encourage it. In the distance, Yvette had become quite verbose, clearly unaware of her rescuer's anguish.

"Listen, myself is th' only thing I have t'offer. Don't y'understand? I feel indebted t'you!"

"You're not," he told her sternly, vexation creeping into his tone. "And even if I _did _expect to be rewarded for coming to your aid, I would remain as adamant in refusing your advances as I am now. So please, for the sake of us both, accept the fact that I saved your life because I felt it right and that I neither expect nor want anything in return."

He turned his back to her – just has he had done in the tavern weeks ago – the final word his once more, and left her to her thoughts. Again he assumed his position at the wall, the rough stone cool from the night, prickling his skin, making him uncomfortably aware of the misty dawn and reminding him that his coat was now in the possession of a whore.

Lifting his head quickly caused him to grimace and the alley to become speckled with dark splotches and popping stars. Gritting his teeth, he withstood the pain to search for Yvette, who, thankfully, was but a few feet across from him, busying herself with wiping the smudged kohl from her cheeks (and only creating greater streaks in the process). As if sensing his eyes upon her, she looked up, her gaze meeting his, and watched him with quiet interest.

"You're not well."

His brow creased in bewilderment. He had been certain that she would say "_What?_" in a clipped, demanding tone that clearly marked how annoyed she was with being stared at. If not that, then he thought that she would have been flattered by his scrutiny, sashayed over, and made some infuriating remark about how he had been "caught in the act," so to speak, and how it would do him no good to deny it because his lust for her was all too obvious.

Yet she had proved both of his speculations false, startling him with a remark about his health. And the manner in which it had been spoken – that was equally puzzling. There was no warmth in her words, no compassion…but it was not a plain, callous stating of the facts. Most peculiar.

He held up a hand, assuring her that he was quite all right, merely withstanding the consequences of his own foolishness; all in all, nothing that could not be overcome with several hours' rest. As he said this, it tasted a lie – bitter salivation in his mouth – but if it resulted in her departure, then it would suffice.

The persistent harlot did not leave but presented him with another smile, her face aglow with the light of one who has just had a brilliant thought. All color drained from his face as he waited with mounting dread for what she was about to say.

"That's it, then," she proposed happily. "You'll share a bed with me."

He felt ill.

There was a moment's silence between them – she stared at him expectantly; he closed his eyes and slid to the ground, the wall scraping against his back.

"What," he began flatly, "will make you realize that I am repulsed by the very idea of '_sharing a bed with you?'_"

"Th' idea of simply sleeping by th' side of a woman – nothin' more, nothin' less – repulses you?"

He looked up at her, surprised to see her at his side and furious with himself for not noticing sooner. She smirked.

"Y'know, fer someone so very much against bedroom games, y'certainly think about 'em a lot."

He ignored the barb. At that moment arduous activities such as thinking made his head pound. Instead he regarded her with wary confusion, unsure of how trustworthy she was. After all, even if she _didn't_…have her way with him…there was no guarantee that he would survive the night – day – unscathed. She could rob him – she already had his coat; he had nothing for her to steal, save for his pistol and sword, and they had been suffering from disuse for months, now. Perhaps she would drug him and then sell him to a Molly house? Though he shuddered at the thought, he failed to see her motive. Then, if nothing else, there was always the chance that she would do him in… but had he not, for the past several months, been trying to do that himself? Therefore, if she were to kill him, he should consider it a favor…

A faint moan rose from his throat and he shut his eyes, praying that what little he had eaten that day would stay put. He pressed a hand to his abdomen, though no relief came from the action.

This was his own fault, this misery. He had no one to blame but himself for this hell on Earth. He had known that, with his head in its current condition, too much time spent on contemplation would make him ill, just as he had know that it was foolish to consume six…seven…tankards of rum…just as he had known it was madness to attempt to sail through a hurricane…that he would be fighting a losing battle…that good men would be lost as a result of his own selfishness…

He gasped, his insides twisting horribly, desperate to escape.

Through the blinding nausea he heard someone in the distance mutter, "Oh dear" before he was roughly grabbed by the shoulders and hauled out into the street.

The urge was even stronger, now, and so tempting. He wanted to resist, yet…something insisted that, if he capitulated, he would feel better. The logic beat inside his skull as the world spun before him, everything smearing together in a sickening amalgam of shapes and colors. His pride swirled with them, becoming lost in the mess. It was useless, now. He surrendered.

The contents of his stomach came rushing forth, exploding from his mouth and onto the cobblestones until there was nothing left.

His face burned as he stood there, weak, shaking, overwhelmed with humiliation and shame.

And at his side was Yvette holding out a frayed handkerchief.

He looked away, unable to meet her sympathetic gaze and hating himself for feeling embarrassed in the presence of a woman that sold her body for a living. He accepted the rag without comment, his eyes downcast.

"All right, then," she said softly.

He nodded stiffly, silently cursing himself for what he was about to do.

"Do I have your word that…nothing will happen?" His voice was hoarse, brittle, trembling – so foreign to his ears. He despised it.

Yvette appeared shocked and a bit perplexed by his question, but her expression quickly softened with understanding.

"On my honor – or…lack thereof," she began haltingly, "I swear t'you that, if'n y'_do_ choose t'spend a night with me – share a bed, sheets, pillows…an' sleep in th' same space as a _whore_…that no shenanigans of any kind will take place." She smirked faintly. "Lovey, I give you my _word_ that my _word _is _all_ that I'll give you."

He swallowed nervously, tasting bile.

"Very well. If that is the case, then I feel…inclined to…accept your previous offer – assuming, of course, that it still stands?"

There was a small hint of relief in her next words.

"It does."

"Then, perhaps, we should –"

"O'course," she said at once and motioned for him to follow her. He complied, lapsing into a brooding silence that she, thank God, seemed to understand and chose not to interrupt. He turned her handkerchief over in his palm, contemplating his latest actions – the actions of a desperate man.

High above, the last of the stars began to fade, becoming one with the watery light of the morning sky.

۞۞۞

**Notes**

Stars – and here I didn't think symbolism was possible with a story this short. Basically, the stars represent hope (in Norrington's case) and life (Yvette's) being extinguished. Well, save for the very last line in this chapter, of course. In _that _case, the stars symbolize reconciliation, coming together – all that good stuff.

…that first fateful encounter with pirates – there is more to this, of course, but once again it is a story for a different chapter.

…that precious bliss/ She smiled blissfully – done so deliberately that it needed to be pointed out. If you read deep enough, you should (hopefully) be able to see how similar the first and second scenes are, at least as far as wording goes.

"I'm suffocating!" – admittedly, I thought that this was _much _more interesting and disturbing than the getting-raped-in-an-alley cliché, wouldn't you agree?

"_I can't breathe…_" – I debated for quite a while before finally deciding to do this. It's just that I normally refrain from recycling lines from the movie as that has the tendency to be both boring and annoying. Let me know if this is either, gang.

…he removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders – it's not Mary-Sue magic, I swear! This is really my attempt to keep him in character. Really, I think that, despite all he's been through, Norrington would still be _somewhat _of a gentleman and, upon seeing Yvette's shaking, would automatically think to give her his coat.

Yvette - still not her real name. Just wanted to remind everyone.

He stiffened – to repel any sexual innuendoes this might inspire…his entire body stiffens, although, and I highly doubt anyone will know what I'm talking about, this is actually a throwback to the Yeston/Kopit version of _the Phantom of the Opera_. In one scene it reads: "_Christine walks up behind Erik and puts her arms around him. He stiffens_." My English teacher unwisely had my class read this adaptation aloud and, of course, upon voicing this line, everyone's inner pervert went into overdrive.

**A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


	5. Of Bliss and Bedsheets

**Chapter IV**

_**Of Bliss and Bedsheets**_

"_So do not think of helpful whores as aberrational blots; I could not love you half so well without my practice shots_."

–James Stewart Alexander Simmons

Feeling rather anxious about this chapter, gang. It's not that I don't _care _for what I've written and it's not that I think anyone is out-of-character (though I've certainly been wrong about _that _before), it's just that I feel that this installment…differs slightly from the others. While it's supposed to be soft in comparison to the harshness of the other chapters, I'm worried that it's going to seem too mushy compared to the previous chapters – almost as if it doesn't belong in this story at all. Then again, I might just be being paranoid, but I'd still greatly appreciate some feedback from you guys – not that you haven't been giving me great feed back already, of course. :)

۞۞۞

With that night's wages combined with the money she had earned (i. e. stolen) from her would-be killer, Yvette was able to purchase a grim little box of a room with walls painted (inefficiently) a bleak shade of gray, a ceiling with an over-abundance of cracks and watermarks, and a single window that had neither panes nor curtains. The room consisted of only two pieces of furniture: There was a rickety end table, upon which sat a chipped basin and pitcher; and a narrow bed with a lumpy mattress that was, more likely than not, infested with lice and all other manner of vermin. Thrown over top of the bed was a thin coverlet that was spattered with stains that would have been best kept unidentified along with a sad pair of pillows (almost completely flat and torn at the corners).

And this was where he intended to sleep.

His temple throbbed and the room suddenly tilted, making his stomach churn and groan – several painful reminders as to why he had made this agreement.

He watched as Yvette took up a seat on the bed, her back to him, and began to undress, starting with her little pink shoes (more dusty brown than pink) and gradually moving upward. She paused in the midst of pulling off a stocking, as if remembering something. Glancing over her shoulder at him, she removed his coat and placed it on the mattress with surprising neatness. Odd.

Still mulling over this random act of thoughtfulness, he turned around, seeing that she was about to unlace her stays.

"Y'don't have t –" she began.

"Yes, I do."

His tone left no room for arguments.

"Would y'mind stayin' like that fer a bit?" she asked after several minutes had passed. "M'not naked or anything. Jus' need t'fix my hair."

He blinked in confusion but did not turn around.

"You have no qualms if I see you in a state of undress," he began slowly, "yet you object to my seeing your hair loose?"

When she answered him, her voice was light and matter-of-fact.

"I don't like my hair."

An uncomfortable silence followed before Yvette, who apparently did not enjoy the quiet and wanted to fill every second with as much noise as she could, ended it by saying, "Y'can lie down if y'want. M'jus' washin' my face."

Not immune to curiosity, he turned to see that her mess of hair had been coerced into a long, fastidious braid and that her ugly gown had been painstakingly folded and placed next to the end table with her shoes, stockings, and…under garments…leaving her standing there, barefooted, in nothing but a cotton shift. She smiled faintly at him as she poured water into the basin. He quickly averted his eyes, as if suddenly finding the bed incredibly interesting.

By now his legs wanted to give out and his insides threatened to betray him again, yet he still sat on the edge of the bed, taking the time to remove his boots, hat, and weapons and untuck his shirt before easing himself onto the mattress, gingerly curling up on his side. From where he was lying he could see Yvette as she stood over the basin, splashing water onto her cheeks. When she looked up it appeared as though years had melted from her face, making him wonder exactly how old she was, though he dared not ask. It was not his place.

"Would y'like a drink?" she asked, gesturing to the pitcher.

He carefully shook his head, eyes closed.

"Oh dear," he heard her say. The bed creaked as she sat down next to him. "Are you ill again?"

"Only somewhat," he assured her. "It's nothing."

"Well, is there anythin' I –"

"No," he said sharply. He knew that he was being rude – she was merely offering her help – but, given her past record, it was quite possible that her definition of help differed slightly from his. He knew from the start that this agreement had been a terrible mistake – he was only encouraging her! He moaned weakly at this, ordering himself to stop thinking before he brought further embarrassment upon himself.

Beside him, the mattress shifted. Unwilling to do battle with curiosity again, he gave in and opened his eyes. Yvette was stretched out on the bed, using her elbows to prop herself up as she intently studied his battered figure.

"Y'should get some sleep," she said after a moment.

His tongue was like a sticky weight in his mouth when he tried to speak.

"At the moment, I doubt that my body will allow that…" It was true, he realized. For all the exhaustion he felt, the agony in his head and torso would not grant him rest.

She tilted her head to the side, lower lip pinched between her teeth.

"I have an idea," she announced suddenly.

Dear God, _no…_ Could she not see that he was trying to capture that elusive creature known as sleep? He looked up at her, eyes both pleading and questioning.

"Turn over on your side, back t'me. …Turn _over_," she repeated when he did not comply, her voice taking on a stern, authoritative edge that reminded him – strangely, painfully – of himself when he had commanded the fleet. Air snagged in his chest, stinging. All of his senses were deserting him, leaving him to fend for himself when he was charged by an onslaught of despair.

He turned his back to Yvette, not because he was following her orders, but because he wanted to evade the torment of memories, thinking the slight movement would be a much-needed distraction from them, if only for a moment. But he had misjudged himself. Terribly. The action sent his insides rolling, and he was once again plagued by nausea.

He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing.

"Thank you," he heard Yvette say. He offered nothing but stony silence as a reply and kept his mouth firmly closed, no longer trusting his body not to humiliate him.

A hand was at his hip.

There was a sharp intake of breath as his entire body tensed. The deceitful jezebel was taking advantage of him in his vulnerable condition! A prurient hand was sliding over his waist and was suddenly beneath his shirt, moving with enticing speed – a dangerous, ravishing serpent against his flesh.

"Calm yerself," she whispered softly. Her lips were right beside his neck… "Thissis what my mother used t'do t'me…"

_What in the name of God – !_

Her hand came to rest gently against his stomach, carefully placed over his navel. He wanted her fingers to be cold – claw-like, even – but they bore a soothing warmth that spread throughout his body. He waited for the ravaging to commence, but it never came. She began to move her hand in a slow, circular motion, gliding it lightly over his abdomen, ever careful of the bruises he had received earlier.

Miraculously, the ache in his stomach began to subside, the dizziness receding. His skin was tingling at the unexpected touch, but it was not, though he was loath to admit it, an unpleasant sensation. The heat from her palm was comforting – in a bizarre way. He found himself, however unwillingly, relinquishing control to let her guide him to a blissful sleep.

At long last he felt his eyelids begin to sag under the burden of exhaustion. It would not be long now, he thought, and sighed in relief. He was so sleepy…

He felt rather than saw Yvette smile at his newfound contentment.

"Better?" she asked, her own voice heavy with weariness.

"Yes," he whispered, too far gone to deny anything.

"That's good…" she murmured distantly, her hand briefly abandoning him to pull the coverlet over their shoulders. He felt oddly chilled until she draped her arm over him and, despite her own need for sleep, rubbed his stomach once more.

"B'fore I ferget," she began, her words slurred by tiredness, "I've been meanin' t'ask if…I could know…yer name."

A pause, then:

"James," he stated flatly. That was the first time in ages that he had heard his name spoken aloud…

"James," she repeated experimentally in a voice laced with…was that affection? With his mind subdued by the powerful opiate sleep, he could not be certain of anything… At the moment, he doubted he could open his eyes if he wanted to – and he certainly did not want to…

"James," Yvette said again. And with a tiny yawn, though her hand never faltered, she sleepily whispered, "Ev'rybody calls me Jou-Jou…"

۞۞۞

**Notes**

Stays - despite what they say in Curse of the Black Pearl , they were called stays back then, not corsets. It's the same thing, though, obviously.

"I don't like my hair." - while this isn't necessarily important now , it will be later on (much later on).

…a dangerous, ravishing serpent against his flesh – ravishing in the "being raped" sense, rather than the "attractive" sense. Of course, neither Jou-Jou nor her hand is raping him – dear James just has an overactive imagination.

"Ev'rybody calls me Jou-Jou…" – and so shall we. A prostitute must have a memorable name, after all, and this prostitute will be no exception, albeit it isn't her real name any more than "Yvette" is. However, unlike Yvette, it _is _the name she goes by on Tortuga – and it's quite fitting, actually, as "_joujou_" is French for "playmate or "plaything." And I'm sure you all remember this girl's desire to see France, yes? ;)

**A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


	6. Feminine Wiles

**Chapter V**

_**Feminine Wiles**_

Firstly, I apologize. This chapter took me entirely too long to write. At school I was suddenly bombarded with assignments (whoever said that seniors had it easy was a liar) and for the last week practically all of my free time was spent practicing for various theatrical and choral events. Plus, this chapter was just plain difficult to write. The variety of emotions it's full of is downright insane, and the fact that James seems to contradict himself every ten seconds doesn't improve matters much. Long story short, I took my time with this installment because I wanted (as usual) to avoid any OOC-ness that may occur, which, with a chapter like this, is apt to happen.

A Not-Entirely-Necessary Note:

Y'know, one would think that someone as sensible as Norrington would realize that alcohol is most definitely _not _the solution to his problems and that it, in fact, only makes them considerably _worse_. However, going by what I've gathered from his character, I get the feeling that he _would _turn to drinking after all he's been through – it numbs the pain brought on by his poor, guilt-ridden psyche. Never mind the hangover he'll most likely endure the next morning because he, for the most part, can handle _physical _pain and (at least, in my opinion) he feels like he deserves it. Honestly, this has nothing to do with the following chapter; it's really just meant to make you think (that, and I couldn't get the bloody thought out of my head). Just consider this little note (and any that may follow) to be a "deleted scene" from my essay. :-)

۞۞۞

He had slept with a woman.

He had slept with a woman who was neither his wife, nor even his lover.

Worse yet, he had _agreed _to it. No force had been necessary – he had willingly shared a bed with a complete stranger, a prostitute, a woman he barely knew and cared little for.

Dear God, what had he become?

Nervous and trying desperately to ignore the warmth of the body next to him, he looked over at her.

She had yet to wake. Thank God. Now he could leave without any confrontation. There would be no discussions concerning the previous night – morning – for he would be gone before her eyelashes began to flutter, never to see her again.

Of course, that was an impractical thought – Tortuga wasn't _that _large an island – they were certain to cross paths sooner or later. Well, if ever they did then he would avoid her gaze, even turn in the opposite direction if it came to that. It was cowardly but effective – perfectly suitable for the shameful debaclehe now called his life.

How low he had sunk that he had come to fear confrontation with a prostitute, that he was willing to sneak off while she was sleeping just so he would not have to endure her company for another minute. It all seemed so exorbitant, this preparation, this apprehension…she was a whore – not a demon-spawn that was secretly machinating how to efficiently assault him.

And if she _was _a succubus masquerading as a woman?

_I could easily overpower her_, he thought as he took in her attenuated frame, though he doubted (and prayed) that it would not come to that. She was so terribly thin, he observed, recalling how sharp the bones of her shoulders had felt through his coat. And that face with its poor skin stretched so tightly…razor-sharp cheekbones…sunken eyes…it was a painful sight to behold.

Normally harsh features were relaxed in sleep, leaving but a few flakes and streams to serve as vestiges of her maquillage. She appeared younger, somehow, in this calm, natural state, and once again he found himself pondering her age. She could not have been much older than he – possibly even younger… Whatever her age, one thing was certain: Even with her face so pinched and gaunt he much preferred her this way. She was quite attractive like this – not in a physical sense, of course, though her visage _had_ improved a great deal with a day's rest (her lips weren't quite so wide, and her nose wasn't large at all – slightly long, yes, but slender). No, she was appealing now because of the sudden…softness…that had enveloped her.

She was not waltzing about with that saucy gait of hers, or narrowing one brow whilst arching the other in scrutiny; she was not forcing herself on him or hurling a scandalous remark his way. For once she was silent – a most becoming trait, in his opinion. She was also…smaller, it seemed, once stripped of that tawdry affair she called a gown, almost hidden beneath his coat. Tiny wisps of hair had escaped her braid and now hung about her starved face, billowing gently as she breathed. It was almost…endearing.

He hadn't realized that he had been watching her until she slung her arm over him. Startled, he jerked away from the still-sleeping woman. Dozens of panicked thoughts racing through his mind, he forgot the narrowness of the bed and fell backwards, hitting the floor with a hiss of pain.

He winced as he lay on his back, trying to gather the wind that had been knocked out of him and having a mental rant that he refused to voice. There was no hope of leaving unnoticed, now, for Jou-Jou (or whatever her name might be today) had undoubtedly been roused by the commotion his cowardice had caused.

Sure enough, when at last he looked up, he saw, through a thick haze, that the blurred outline of a tousled, distinctly female face was peering down at him.

۞۞۞

Her head tipped to the right, her eyebrows arched, and she stared down at the prone man on the floor, thoroughly perplexed.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," he muttered curtly. The fact that he was anything but was quite visible. More than likely, he was regretting their agreement. At the moment, she couldn't find it in her to feel annoyed at his churlishness, not with the knowledge that she would now be dead were it not for him.

"Would y'like me t'help you up, or are y'content t'stay there on th' floor?"

"No."

His voice had become worn, feeble, and somewhat lost…and also just a little bit frightened – frightened because he could not find his way.

"James?" she called softly.

When he turned his head away from her, she knew that whatever truces that had formed between them that morning had been forgotten and that in their place stood an imperviable barrier.

۞۞۞

"James?"

She appeared to enjoy saying his name. He recalled, briefly, that morning when she had voiced it with a small trace of fondness. Now she was only bewildered and perhaps a little bit put out by his frosty tone. No doubt she was wondering why, after their armistice, he was being so hostile?

Last night he had been intoxicated. Last night his mind had not been functioning properly, it's wheels stiff and caked in rust from lack of use. Last night, tormented by sickness and exhaustion, he had seized the opportunity for a moment of rest. Last night mistakes had been made – mistakes that he had no intention of repeating.

She was staring at him, her dark eyes boring into him as if piercing through his flesh to see find and devour his soul.

He was overreacting, exaggerating the situation. Of course… She meant him no harm, had no incentive to attack him, let alone feast upon his _soul_ (and what remained of that had been polluted long before he met her). There was nothing left to take from him, now…and yet he continued to recoil every time she looked his way, still convinced that that within that reedy frame there lurked a secret miasma that she would unleash upon him the moment he let his guard fall. It would curl itself around him, deceptively sweet and tender as it seeped into every pore, ingraining itself into his person until, at last, it consumed him completely. And then, when all was said and done, he would become something even darker and more execrable. He would truly be a wicked man, and things such as morality and honor would no longer matter.

For this alone there was no reason to trust her.

Yet neither was there a reason _not _to. After all, this was a fabrication of an addled mind; it certainly could not constitute as a reason to distrust her.

She had insulted him – when first they met, no less.

It was all in her own defense, however. And had his plan not been to belittle and anger her in the hope that she would leave?

But she was forever throwing herself at him: a wink here, a libidinous smile there…always hinting, suggesting, teasing…and the way she pranced about with that scandalously low bodice, flaunting whatever assets she could, her hungry features alive with reds and blacks…

Though now it seemed as if she had finally realized that the man did not "protest too much" but that he truly thought of her advances as a repellant.

He sighed heavily as his tower of confusion grew to staggering proportions, barely hearing her inane chatter through the cacophony blaring inside his head.

"You're havin' second thoughts about this," she stated, her voice encumbered with regret of her own.

He didn't answer, instead choosing to scowl moodily at the dull, scuffed floorboards.

"M'sorry," she murmured. "I didn't think it'd upset y' this much –"

"I'm not upset," he snapped, glaring sharply at her.

She in turn narrowed her eyes, penitence giving way to umbrage.

"Well, y'cert'nly look it!" she retorted irritably.

"Then you are _mistaken_," he seethed, her anger feeding his own.

"Fergive me, then, fer tryin' t'apologize fer offerin' you some bloody _kindness_, which makes utterly _no _sense whatsoever, ergo I honestly don't understand why, in God's holy name, I am apologizin'!"

"I am certain," he began quietly, "that if you were to close your mouth – assuming that you possess the ability – and contemplate our situation for a long enough period of time, the answer would come to you."

She pursed her lips and her nostrils flared as she sat up on her knees, hands on her hips. The image would have been rather comical had he not been feeling so truculent toward her.

"Are you tellin' me t'be quiet?" she demanded, her tone low as she tried to reign her outrage.

"If it isn't _too _much of a bother…"

She gawked at him, flabbergasted and quite beside herself.

"What's come over –"

"_You_," he finished rancorously.

"_What?_" she exclaimed. "Why?"

"Yes, _why?_" he sneered, struggling to his feet. "Why are you so determined to help me? Why on Earth would a _prostitute_ – a woman so desperate for money she is willing to go to the most vile means in order to obtain it – pursue one man relentlessly when there are others to be had?"

"Don't you _dare _–"

"Unless there was some sort of benefit for you?"

"Is _that _what y'think – ?"

"_What else could it be?_"

"Perhaps I was simply bein' _compassionate!_"

"Of course," he said, his voice practically oozing sarcasm. "I'd forgotten that you're such a _caring _individual."

"God, _no_," she scoffed distastefully. "I already told you: I owe y'fer savin' my hide."

"And if my memory serves me correctly, _I _already told _you _that you are, in no way, indebted to me."

"Why'd y'sleep with me, then?" she challenged.

"For God's sake, _I_ _don't know!_" he blurted furiously.

Her glare did not waver.

"Well let's jus' _scream _like a lunatic, then! That'll make ev'rything better!" She was raving, fed up with continuing a conversation whose path was circular. "An' stop pacin' like that! You'll make yerself sick again!"

۞۞۞

This was ridiculous. As far as she could tell, neither one of them was making any headway, and she wanted to go back to bed. The prospect of sleep was growing increasingly less likely, however, as her temper was blazing. And it was all thanks to that bloody idiot…

Had she honestly felt sorry for him?

Yes. And she did still. The poor luv looked to be a down-on-his-luck nobleman – navy, judging by his attire, and quite important, too, for his coat to have acquired all that gold. It was more than likely that living in a pirate haven was something he had never even _thought _he would experience. Therefore, unless he had stolen that jacket (unlikely, given his reaction to _her _thievery), she imagined that it was exceptionally difficult for a navy man to cope when surrounded by those he would have once taken pride in arresting. Of course, assuming that he _was _(or, at least, had been) one of His Majesty's finest, he must have been flaying himself constantly for sinking so low as to indulge in the same despicable activities as the ruffians he undoubtedly detested.

Ah, of course…and that was why he shied away from her: He feared becoming that which he hated. That, and his steadfast sense of propriety would not allow him to have a woman, whether said woman was willing or not. It was highly irritating…and at the same time almost endearing. After all, there was nothing wrong with decorum, though it was a bit impractical in a culpable place like Tortuga. Best to defenestrate it and conform to the locals. Still…she wasn't opposed to a man who knew how to treat a lady.

_Yes. I'm such a lady_, she thought caustically as she glanced over at him. Well, at least he'd had enough sense to put his anger aside, take her advice, and sit down, albeit he was on the very edge of the bed, having put as much space between the two of them as he could. Very well. If that was what made him feel more at ease, then she would take no offense. Besides that, she wasn't ignorant enough to think herself truly appealing. No, she was perfectly aware of her ugly countenance, damn her hair…

She sighed and watched him out of the corner of her eye, wanting to ask for forgiveness but certain that doing so would only reinforce his animosity toward her.

"I…" she began uncertainly, cringing inwardly when, at the sound of her voice, he closed his eyes as if in pain. Yes, that had been foolish of her. She quickly shut her mouth.

Another sigh, this time from him.

"I am more at fault than you are, though I will admit to wanting to place the blame entirely on you." He paused to lift a weary hand and rub the bridge of his nose. "I slept with a woman who was not my wife."

She blinked at him curiously.

"Oh, you…you're married."

A hollow laugh.

"No."

"No longer?"

"_Never_."

"Oh…"

She let it trail off into a thicket of uncomfortable silence, thinking it unwise to say anything more. This did nothing, however, to quiet the thoughts now running through her head.

The amount of bitterness and longing in that one word, that "_Never_", were telltale. The man desired a wife – possibly more than anything. It was astounding, really, that a man such as himself was unmarried – if her previous theory proved to be correct. A high-ranking naval officer should have caught the eye of many eligible maidens, particularly if he held their virtues in the same regard as he held hers – sans disgust toward her profession and appearance.

"You must excuse my behavior," he said suddenly, toneless. "I am unaccustomed to all of…_this_…" A hand rose at that final word and hung in the air, its purpose vague as if it was uncertain of its future, speaking of the confusion and worry that its owner could not voice.

"I'd gathered that," she replied tentatively. "I don't expect a man such as yerself _would _be accust'med t'this way of life."

When he shot her a curious glance she raised her eyebrows pointedly at the sullied uniform that lay between them. She shrugged nonchalantly.

"Wasn' that hard t'figger out."

۞۞۞

He nodded distantly, his head so full of thoughts it threatened to burst, though it was mild in comparison to the pain he had felt earlier that morning. No, this was simply…an over-abundance of ideas, an immense preoccupation…although he would have been thankful if they had at least sorted themselves out instead of becoming more and more entangled with one another until they were one gargantuan web of conceptions.

The truth was that he knew he had acted rashly, treated her unfairly, lashing out at her when she had tried to apologize for taking care of him.

She had been right to question the guilt she had felt for her benevolence. There had been no call for that remorse, just as there had been no call for the animosity he had directed at her.

He had to ask for her forgiveness.

His eyes flickered to her face, and she held them with steady gaze of her own. Her features were delicate, unmarred by lines brought on by scorn for him, save for her eyebrows, which were very slightly knit in thought. That was another thing that had surprised him – with as painted up as they had been, he had expected her brows to be sparse, nearly invisible. But on the contrary, they seemed almost…effortlessly shapely. And now they gave a small quirk as she simply sat there, surveying him, not expecting him to continue, perhaps even wondering what _she _was to do about _him_.

The swarm of thoughts extant, he took in a low breath and began.

"I would like to apologize for my earlier words – for my treatment of you as a whole, actually. I have tried to convince myself that only through your manipulation did I agree to…"

"Share a bed with me," she supplied evenly, as if knowing that he would have rather not said the words himself.

"Yes," he replied stiffly. "However, I knew that that was untrue. I allowed your…profession…to obstruct my vision and as a result I failed to see that your intentions truly were _good_. You were being kind and not once did I appreciate that. Instead I chose to discredit your generosity and throw it back at you."

"An' what about: So desp'rate fer money she's willin' t'do th' most vile things in order t'get it," she cut in, remembering his words.

"That was out of line," he admitted at once.

"Though that knowledge won't stop y'from thinkin' me desperate." Her voice was cold.

His mouth close abruptly; he hung his head.

"I _am _sorry," he said softly. "I'm terribly sorry. In those moments…I was not myself."

"Oh, lovey," she sighed sadly. "Whoever is?"

He cocked his head at her, not making sense of the question, but he chose not comment.

"As fer your apology…" She paused, thinking. The silence was unbearable.

"I will not blame you in the least if you refuse it. I behaved appallingly, therefore I do not expect you to forgive me. I had no right to treat you as I did, especially after you have been more than kind to me." He let out a brief, hollow laugh. "I don't believe I ever thanked you…"

"My debt, remember?" she pointed out. "Y'don't have t'give thanks when someone owes you."

He shook his head stubbornly.

"No. Even if that _is _the case, which it most certainly is _not_, I still should have expressed my gratitude rather than condemn you, and for my harsh words and severe lack of manners…for that I am truly sorry."

"Y'didn't even let me finish," she pointed out. "Bit rude of you."

His gaze dropped to his hands. "I needed you to know that."

A third, foreign hand suddenly slid over top of his. He looked up, startled. She smiled.

"You're much too hard on yerself, y'know that? What I was about t'say was that I fergive you."

He blinked, confused and thoroughly shocked that she did not despise him. He stared down at their hands, at their intertwined fingers, wondering why he had been granted clemency when he did not deserve it? How easily she had forgiven him – an ability that must have been born out of being unable to express her true emotions lest they compromise a customer's happiness and, as a result, her being paid. He realized that, often times, military men donned the same blank mask – for different reasons. He shook his head, knowing that he could not forgive himself despite the fact that she had.

For a moment, he peered at their hands intently, astonished at how tiny hers looked in his own. Then, at once, he looked up at her, his voice at last returning to him.

"I deserve your hatred," he told her. "Whatever grudges you may hold against me, whatever spiteful insults you may wish to voice – I deserve them."

"I know," she agreed, sounding weary. "But I find it's best not t'keep grudges – makes life much simpler. 'Sides," she continued with an air of indifference. "I find it unwise t'stay cross at onna th' only men who's been halfway decent t'me… _You_," she elaborated when he looked skeptical. "Honestly, of all th' men I've been with, you're onna th' better ones – an' no, fer once I don't mean it like that," she added with a roll of her eyes.

"Please," he implored, "do not trouble yourself by showering me with false compliments."

"Why not if it's true?" she demanded to know. "You're such a gentleman – even if y'didn't remember t'thank me. What I mean is, yes, y've been a bit…cantankerous – well, more 'n a bit – but…the way y're completely against takin' advantage of me? How y'feel that it's _wrong?_ That's very thoughtful of you, almost sweet."

He gaped at her, dumbstruck.

"I jus' feel like a ninny fer forcin' myself on you all th' time." She shrugged her pointed shoulders. "I've been in this buisiness fer so long…musta fergottin that there _are _some men who…_don't_ have jus' one thing on their minds, however rare they may be.

"M'curious, though," she went on. "Why _did _y'call me over that night if y'weren't plannin' t'sleep with me?"

Creases appeared on his brow as he tried to conjure up a suitable explanation only to find that the only answer that occurred to him was the disgraceful truth. He could not bring himself to tell her that – that his longing for human contact had grown so fierce, that he had become reckless and pathetic enough that he had sought out the company of a whore. The warmth that another person could offer was tantalizing – achingly so.

He chuckled dryly. "Because I am no better than the letches that normally solicit you."

"Yes, you are," she stated matter-of-factly, her eyes bright and knowing. "B'cause even if that _is _true, y'still knew that it wasn't right. Now, that's a fact that all of my men're well aware of, but _they _don't let it bother 'em. _You_, on th' other hand…" She grinned broadly. "You couldn't have yer wicked way with me. You may've _wanted _to, yes…but that doesn't give you any motive t'do it, does it? Not really. Not in yer eyes. B'cause, despite _all_ reasoning, y'know it isn't right. An' _that_, no matter how many flaws y'claim t'have, puts y'jus' a smidgen higher than th' rest. Least, in my mind, it does.

"Now, then," she announced briskly, releasing his hand to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. "What do y'say to a bit more sleep? I imagine we've got few more hours b'fore I have t'get t'work."

His mind was completely barren – a starved, arid wasteland – as she burrowed under the coverlet, the squabbling mass of thoughts evaporating, leaving nothingness in their wake.

She was wrong.

She was an ever-flowing fountain of nonsense, spouting mad ideas and spraying wild tales while always under the pretense that she knew what she was talking about.

She was _wrong_.

He would have to set her straight, but…later. She had already fallen asleep, the little fool… Shaking his head in disbelief, he, too, succumbed to exhaustion and curled up at her side, still marveling at how easily she evaded reason.

۞۞۞

**Notes**

Succubus – this is actually an appropriate term in more than one way. For those who don't know, a succubus was thought to be a demon in female form that had sexual intercourse with sleeping men. Now, as a woman thinking of this from a man's point of view, I fail to see how this could be considered a bad thing (unless you're James). However, a succubus is also another, less-popular, and more offensive term for a prostitute. Interesting, isn't it? Also, "The Succubus" was originally the title of this chapter, but I found "Feminine Wiles" to be much more fitting.

She appeared to enjoy saying his name. – from what I've noticed in the movies, not many people refer to him by his first name. Even Elizabeth only calls him "James" once, and that's in a deleted scene. This, I feel, is significant because it would seem that those who call him either by his last name or his title are not familiar with James, the person, who he really is. And we all know that this is, for the most part, how he wants it. However, on Tortuga, we can see that, because he no longer has his duty to hide behind and his work to keep his mind busy and away from emotions, he has difficulty concealing his true self. Because of this, Jou-Jou is given a major advantage. Aside from the fact that she's naturally intuitive, she is presented with an unveiled James who tries to keep his mask in place but doesn't do a very good job. As a result, it is possible that she is one of the few who knows (or will know) him better than many of the people who have known him for years.

… a down-on-his-luck nobleman – navy, judging by his attire – has anyone else every wondered how James, who was once the scourge of piracy in the Caribbean, survived in Tortuga, a pirate port? I'm under the impression that, while he obviously made no efforts to hide the fact that he was a military man, he didn't broadcast who he was specifically. That way, hopefully, all the pirates and rum runners and thieves and such would look and him and think "Arrgh, navy! Let's kick his ass!" as opposed to "It's that no-good Commodore who killed our pirate brethren! Let's torture and kill him!" Anyone have any other ideas?

He had to ask for her forgiveness. – I always got the feeling that, even if he had every right to do it (which he doesn't, in this case), James would still feel guilty about verbally abusing someone if they were a decent person, however mild said abuse may have been. He would try to find a reason not to regret his actions, but he would just keep arguing with himself until he eventually went "This is pointless" and apologized. But maybe that's just me?

**A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


	7. Abandon Ship

**Chapter VI**

_**Abandon Ship**_

Before we begin, for anyone that enjoyed my introduction at the beginning of this story, feel free to take the time to check it out again before reading this chapter. You'll see that it has been extended quite a bit, as I've added more detail and quite a few ideas and opinions to it.

Yet Another Deleted Scene/Paragraph:

We all know that I support Norrington, his character, and even his actions – unlikable as they may be – in _Dead Man's Chest_, yes? I understand why he's bitter, I understand why he turned into an alcoholic, I understand why he vows revenge on Jack, I understand why he joined "the dark side," and I understand why he stole the heart… However, no matter how much thought I put into it, I fail to understand why he sailed through a bloody _hurricane_. Really, that's just stupid and we know that James is _not _a stupid guy. I _have_ read several possibilities and have even come up with a few of my own, but none of them seem to fit with the character we saw in _Curse of the Black Pearl_.

One idea is that he was so depressed by Elizabeth's rejection that he allowed it to cloud his judgement and thus he did not heed the warning signs of an impending storm. This, for me, is the most plausible explanation, however, at the same time I find it to be a bit...far fetched. While I wholeheartedly believe that James was very much in love with Elizabeth, I simply have a difficult time believing that he would do something so utterly _foolish._ It's true that no one is _completely _selfless (as we saw in _Dead Man's Chest_), but he seemed resigned at the end of the first movie – hurt, yes, but resigned. Elizabeth loved Will and not him, and although the prospect of ending his loneliness had been snatched away from him, he accepted this because it meant that Elizabeth would be happy. I can see him being upset and even bitter, particularly if he's drunk and _especially _if he sees that Elizabeth is attracted to a man who is not the man she claimed to love. However, can I see him becoming so blinded that he knowingly endangers his life and, more importantly, the lives of others? No, not at all.

Then someone speculated that he tried to go through the hurricane because he had become obsessed with catching Captain Jack, but once again this doesn't seem to fit with the man we know from the first movie. Really, why would James, who clearly has a _small _amount of respect for Captain Jack, who looked a bit uncomfortable at the pirate's hanging, who gave him a day's head start, give such a serious pursuit? Despite what my inner Sparrington fan says, I'd like to think of something a bit more logical. It is possible that he thought that by arresting Captain Jack he could make up for losing _the Interceptor_, but one would think that at some point he would go, "Okay, this is pointless. I'm not redeeming myself by keeping this up, I'm only wasting time and making myself look like an idiot." Plus, what was he doing in Tripoli in the first place? Isn't that just a bit out of his jurisdiction? And I could also argue that the idea of James trying to sail through a hurricane is ridiculous simply because hurricanes do not occur in the Mediterranean and therefore do not occur near Tripoli… But that can be countered with the excuse that, in those times, any big, nasty storm that occurred near water was considered a hurricane.

Anyway, point is, I'm bothered by the thought of James doing something so reckless and would really like an explanation that is more rational than the ones mentioned above. I've toyed with the notion that he didn't _intend _to sail through the hurricane, that he didn't see it coming (what with satellite warning networks, GPS, radio broadcasts, wind-speed monitors, and the like having not been invented yet), and that by the time he _did _realize that a storm was coming, there wasn't much he could do to avoid it. After all, when Gibbs asks if he tried to sail through it, James neither confirms nor denies this, merely changes the subject. But then, this explanation conflicts with his feelings regarding losing his ship and his men. Why does he feel so guilty if it wasn't his fault? The only answer I can offer is this: Because he's James. Because it's like Jou-Jou said: He's much too hard on himself. Because he was in charge and, in his mind, that means that he should have been able to prevent the storm from hitting his ship, and the fact that he couldn't do that when he believes that he should have been able to only makes him feel more guilty.

But those are just my thoughts. If anyone has something to add, feel free. You know I always appreciate having my readers' input. :)

۞۞۞

Four months had passed since that morning, four months since he had taken a woman to bed, four months since their heated quarrel, four months since their reconciliation, their truce, their understanding…four months since she had declared him a good man.

He had not slept with her, not in any sense of the term, since that morning four months ago, and she had not made him another proposition. Of their encounters, that one had been the most…eventful…yet it felt as if a great deal had happened after that.

Four months ago, after the sun had set and the island had turned into a kingdom of nighttime pleasures, he had bid her goodbye and left her to her duties as bedmate of the carousing abettors of a corrupted royal court, assuming (though not hoping) that he would not see her again.

Yet they had not severed their connection.

That very same week he had had the misfortune to cross her path, and, somehow, what had begun as a fleeting moment of recognition – brief eye contact – had developed into actual discourse that had ended, not with each party fuming at one another, but in…neutrality.

Unpredictably, bizarrely, they had seen each other after that. They weren't part of his regular evening, their meetings…but every now and then, during those small periods of the night when she wasn't tending to a customer or when he wasn't at the wrong end of someone's fist, she would wander over to his shadowy little corner at _the Ring O'Bells _(always _the Ring O'Bells_; never any of the other taverns he frequented) and strike up a conversation.

He wasn't always willing to talk to her, but over the months the amount of belligerence and causticity he had shown towards her had faded considerably. No longer was he short with her, and he could now think of her profession without crinkling his nose in disgust. In truth, he felt…sorry for her, now knowing that she did not solicit men because she enjoyed it, and at times he felt rather guilty that there was nothing he could do to help her. Except treat her with more courtesy, of course. And because of this, they quarreled less. More often than not he had even found their talks leaning toward what one might call an intelligent direction. They had spoken of many different things – the subjects of which ranged from matters of faith (he had been surprised to learn of her loyalty for the Catholic Church) to fine dining.

That was one trait that struck him as peculiar: For a person who had never tasted the finer things in life, she certainly had a love for them. Whenever he would reminisce about all of the frivolous yet delightful tangibles that were lost to him – luscious red wine, linen sheets, clothes that were clean and crisp, warm baths with sweet smelling soap – a wide, dreamy smile would grace her features and she would rest her chin in her hand, her eyes glassy and faraway. It was as if she fancied what it would be like to partake in pleasures that he would have once called simple, and it was clear that she would have much enjoyed a life of splendor. He even thought that, at times, she would try to adapt to propriety's standards, as if testing herself to prove that she truly was capable. He had to offer her some commendations for her efforts because, for all her uncouth tendencies, she always took small, quiet sips of ale (and only when they were purchased for and not _by _her); she rarely slumped in her seat; and, for the life of him, he could not recall ever hearing her utter a single profanity.

When he first began to notice these small displays of propriety, he recalled that night four months ago, how she had taken the time to painstakingly fold all of her clothes, despite the already-wrinkled state of them, and then wrestled her knotted mass of hair into a neat braid. Later on he had made several more peculiar observations during the afternoon that followed that night, when they had woken up together for a second time. She had coaxed him into lingering for a while longer –"After all, lovey, what else were y'plannin' on doin'?" she had argued, her eyebrows arched pointedly. And so he had stayed and watched, quite unsure of what to do, as she pinned her curls in place, persuading the uncooperative tangles into a fairly passable arrangement atop her head. Then, chatting amiably all the while, she had added touches of rouge and kohl to her eyes, lips, and cheeks – and all of this was attended to with the same precision that had been shown to her hair. When she had finished, he realized that the slovenly appearance he was accustomed to must have been a result of her rough nights, for when she turned around to face him, he was met with a remarkably prim, if garish, image.

Yet another aspect that niggled at him was her indifference regarding her fellow prostitutes – or anyone else, for that matter. Oh yes, she showed a stunning amount of warmth toward men, but only, as he had discovered when they first met, if they had the means to fund it. He had often suspected that, had he not saved her from a horrible death, she wouldn't acknowledge him. Still, her lack of compassion toward the other ladies of the night perturbed him more so.

One night, nearly a month ago, they had watched as a woman had rushed through the tavern, globs of makeup running down her face and mingling with tears and blood from a ghastly split on her forehead. Not ten seconds after the prostitute had disappeared did a towering brute of a man enter the scene. His eyes swept over the area, lingering on each patron for just a moment until, when his search proved fruitless, he swiftly turned and left.

They could only assume that the two had been together.

At the time, a weak sense of urgency had stirred within him, but Jou-Jou, too familiar with his instinctive succor, had merely waved a hand, coolly unconcerned, saying, "'Tis th' life of a whore. Nothin' we can do about it." Though her mood had been curiously foul for the remainder of the evening.

There was a word to describe her… He searched through the fog born of alcohol that filled his mind… What was it..?

Heartless.

That seemed a harsh term, yet it was all he could think of. To be fair, however, her fellows appeared to be as sympathetic toward her as she was toward them. Such was the life on Tortuga; he knew this. It was cruel, but one had to be selfish in order to survive. He could not count the number of times she had said that, for indeed the callous phrase seemed to be her personal adage.

Callous, but true. Very true.

It was odd, but he had learned, while not a great deal, but several crucial life lessons during his time spent in her presence, just as she had come to know a little about his past.

Not that he had ever disclosed details such as names or locations, lest she discover his true identity. After all, he had not survived in Tortuga for this long with the entire populace fully aware that he had once been the infamous "Pirate Hunter." He had, however (after entirely too much rum, he was sure), gifted her with a vague outline of the recent events of his life.

She had listened raptly, offering her opinion on this or that and posing a question every so often. Sometimes he would respond, but oftentimes he felt disinclined. Oddly, she had never sulked or tried to wheedle answers from him, but had been content without them, as if she had known that there was a reason he hadn't ventured into more depth.

There was, however, one question…the one she had asked him weeks ago – one question so queer, so random that it still plagued him, even today: Had his then-fiancée ever thanked him?

"Fer riskin' yer neck an' th' necks of yer men t'save her pretty self," she had elaborated.

This would fall under the category of questions he decided against answering, though he found it greatly disconcerting nonetheless. Yet still more disconcerting was the knowledge that Elizabeth _hadn't _thanked him – but he had hardly expected her to, what with all she had had to endure.

"Turn y'down an' humiliate y'in public," Jou-Jou had muttered darkly. "A shoddy way t'repay th' man who's willin' t'die fer you."

At the time he had deigned no reply, once again experiencing that awful sensation of having far too many thoughts rattling around inside his skull.

"Did she even apoligize t'you?" she had demanded snidely.

"I fail to see the importance of this matter," he had snapped suddenly, though he had known that he would regret his temper later that night – even if she had no right to pry.

Just as he had known that _that _question would tug at his interest as well, nagging at him because Elizabeth had _not _apologized. And that, for reasons he still could not comprehend, rendered him acutely nonplused.

It was absurd. She was in love – not with him, but with a blacksmith, though that mattered little if she was truly happy. He had realized this, acknowledged it aloud, wished them both well, and promptly retreated, once again assuming his life as a bachelor. The entire affair was dead and buried.

Except that it wasn't, and he was a fool to try and tell himself otherwise.

۞۞۞

"Captain Sparrow!"

The man flinched – actually _flinched_ – at the call, then spun around, hair (and other assorted objects) whipping wildly about his tanned face.

Damn it all, he was still sporting those atrocious beads, she noted, remembering all too well how during their last rendezvous the baubles had repeatedly smacked her in the face due to the man's inexplicable need to be the one on top. She had never been able to figure it out, though it wasn't a dominance complex as it was with many customers, rather something about eunuchs, or so he said. Whatever the reason might have been, she had always been sure to keep her complaints to herself. The Captain always paid well.

His eyes, wreathed with as much kohl as her own, were now darting frantically, searching for the source of the noise. Quirking a brow at this stranger-than-usual behavior but not too bothered by it, she raised a hand, donning her most alluring smile, and wiggled her fingers at him.

Drawn to the sudden movement, his gaze landed on her and, much to her surprise, he exhaled, utterly awash with relief.

Regardless, she smirked, sauntering forward, habitually swinging her hips.

He grinned.

"Jou-Jou."

"Evenin', Captain. Haven't seen y'fer a while. I was beginnin' t'think you'd fergottin me," she sulked, her lower lip, as red as a strawberry, protruding.

"Ah, luv, it hurts me that you'd think such things of me. Y'know y'carve a _very…_memorable…figure." His eyes swept over her appreciatively, drinking their fill as he practically oozed charm.

Her smile was back in an instant and she slipped her arm through his, beginning to head in the direction of _the Bliss and Miss_ – an inn that the pirate often took her to for their nights out.

"So, what's yer fancy this evenin'?" she asked, her head resting on his shoulder. "Th' usual? Or are y'in the mood fer somethin' more…exotic?"

"Actu'lly," he began, gracefully shrugging out of her grasp, "as much as it pains me t'do so, dearest…I'm afraid I'm goin' t'have t'decline."

"Oh, Captain," she simpered, swatting him playfully on the arm. "Y'were _never _one t'play hard-t'-get."

"Not playin', luv," he informed her, his voice far too serious for her liking. "M'here on business. Speakin' o'which, y'wouldn't happen t'know where one might find twen'y…fifty…ninety-nine or so good, strapping lads lookin' fer a life at sea? Preferably gullible, obedient ones that aren't disposed t'commit mutiny?"

She arched her eyebrows but refrained from voicing her thoughts, knowing that it was unwise to ask questions of Captain Jack Sparrow as it would, ultimately, leave one with no answers and a dozen more questions.

"S'ppose y'could try _the Faithful Bride_."

He seemed surprised but cautious, for he carefully said, "Not _the Ring O'Bells?_"

"Captain," she began with a coquettish lilt, "y'know yer th' only man I'd ever _truly _want warmin' my bed…"

Her smile widened as she watched him beam.

"…but when yer nowhere t'be found, I've got t'find _some _way t'make ends meet, do I not? An' how can I do that if you're stealin' my best customers fer your little machinations?"

He opened his mouth to protest, but she pressed a finger to his lips.

"'Sides…you'll catch more fish at _the Faithful Bride_. They're a dense lot, not like my boys at _the Ring O'Bells_. Plenty of them're right clever."

Gently he took her hand from his mouth, the callused pads of his fingers rough against her skin. Soft hands were seen as an impractical luxury on Tortuga, though that did not stop her from liking them.

"Make you a deal, luv," he proposed. "If I can help it, I'll not set one foot inside _the Ring O'Bells_ an' snatch up any o'yer many suitors."

"But nothin's stoppin' y'from snatchin' 'em up on th' _out_side," she countered, sounding seductive yet feeling annoyed.

"They're no longer in yer territory, Jou-Jou! S'free game!"

She pursed her lips but he was unfazed.

"Now, if you'll excuse me…my business, personal affairs, what have yous…they are in dire need of tending."

"Mmm…" she purred thoughtfull, leaning in. "M'not onna yer personal affairs?"

He quickly spun away and she stumbled, nearly falling on her face as a result.

"O'course. But, y'see, darling, if y'were t'make yerself my business, then I'd have business on top o'my _previous _business. Not that havin' an abundance o'goings-ons is onerous or anythin'. Fact, it's good fer you, 'specially when a portion of th'aforementioned business involves fetchin'an' _highly _skilled ladies such as yerself. However, when faced with _too much _of a plentitude o'business, things tend t'become…complicated. Right confusin' mess it is, m'dear, an' I'd _hate _t'see you thrown into it."

Retaining a huff of indignation, she pushed several strands of frizz out of her eyes and erected herself with as much grace as she could summon.

"On th' contrary, Captain. I'd think that throwin' me into th' mix would make matters much, _much_ easier."

"Unfortunately, I beg t'differ," he replied lightly, edging away in a would-be inconspicuous fashion.

Seeing this caused a realization to hit her: He truly did not intend to take her that night. At once her vexation began to rise.

Of all the wretched scoundrels she had ever serviced, _he _had always been a loyal customer. Quite possibly the most promiscuous man she had ever met, he had always been willing. Be it the dead of night or the wee hours of the morning, he had _always _been willing. And now, quite suddenly and with no explanation other some ridiculous business venture, he was turning her away?

It wasn't so much his rejection that piqued her as it was his eerily foreign behavior. He was acting quite unlike himself, keeping his distance, ignoring her advances… Even his mannerisms were different. His hands had…calmed somewhat, stilled themselves, making his gesticulations less grand. His stance and oscillating gait had been reduced to a barely detectable sway. It was as if this once vivacious, colorful, enigmatic man had lost some of his luster.

A discomforting thought.

"Now, if you'll'' excuse me," he began, oblivious to her contemplation as he offered her a charming smile of white and gold. "Duty calls. I've places t'be, an' despite th' fact that I _am _Captain Jack Sparrow, I can't be in all of 'em at once."

"_Oh,_" she sighed with exaggerated disappointment, promptly assuming her flirtatious façade, leaving concern for lackluster pirates to dwell within her mind for later contemplation. "I s'ppose, if y'_must_…"

"I must – I _really _must."

"Well," she breathed into his ear, her voice a soft hum, "if'n y'_do_ find th' time…"

"You'll be th' _first _person I'll seek," he promised with _such_ sincerity that she _doubted_ that he would keep his word. So long as the customer walked away satisfied, it mattered not who had done the job. A whore was a whore.

۞۞۞

"The lousy git kept edgin' away from me! An' he was so jumpy! Always lookin' around – like he was expectin' something t'leap out an' attack him."

"I take it that this is odd for this particular customer?" he queried, setting down his…fourth…? No, maybe fifth… yes, only his fifth pint of rum.

"Odd fer anybody, ducky," she replied. "But yes, very odd fer him… He actually refused _me_…"

"I'm afraid that I can't even _begin _to conceive that notion," he informed her, smirking wryly.

She pressed her lips together but merely waved his sarcasm aside, the anger she would have felt months ago nowhere to be found.

"Makes no sense at all…" She shook her head, looking greatly perturbed as she absentmindedly twisted a lock of hair around her bony finger. "M'not _concerned_, but it _is _mighty unsettlin', seein' a man act so unlike himself. Honestly, in all th' time we've been acquaintances, I've _never once _known Captain Sparrow t'refuse a lady."

His hand stilled, frozen in mid-air when he reached out to grasp his tankard.

"Captain Sparrow," he stated. His voice was quiet, almost dead with disbelief. "As in…Captain _Jack _Sparrow of _the Black Pearl?_"

"Th' same," she confirmed, noticing his tone immediately. "Lemme guess: He's more foe than friend t'you, isn't he? …James? Lovey? What's th' matter?"

She continued to ramble on, but he barely registered it, her voice but a distant buzzing in his ears.

He was in shock. That was it. That was the reason behind this bizarre apathy. That was why he felt no rage – why the opportunity for vengeance stood before him, begging him to seize it and he remained still, unfeeling. He was stunned that, after months of living in shame and squalor, after all but giving up hope, an opportunity for expiation was presenting itself.

But perhaps this numbness was born from the knowledge that his ruination wasn't _entirely _Sparrow's fault? Was that what it was? _He _had deliberately let the pirate slip through his fingers, if only for a day. _He _was the one who had kept up the mad pursuit. _He _had sailed through the hurricane. _He _had led his men to their deaths. _He _was the one with his hands bathed in blood.

Yet hadn't it all _started _with Sparrow? Would he not still have Elizabeth, his commission, his _life _had that pirate never set foot in Port Royal? If Sparrow had not associated with Elizabeth and the Turner boy, would _he _be happily married by now? Was it not Sparrow who had sent him and his men to the Isla de Muerta to do battle with an immortal enemy? Never mind that Sparrow had warned him about the pirates' being undead – what sensible person would have believed such a tale, especially if it came from the mouth of a lying, immoral, thieving pirate who was clearly lacking in sanity? That day, good men had been killed because of Sparrow's madness, just as others had been lost in the hurricane for the same reason. Had Sparrow not sailed so close to the storm, he would not have been caught in it, he would not be sitting in this flagitious island, disgraced and miserable, his only companions rum and a prostitute.

Even if he could not feel the smallest tremor of fury – though now he most certainly could, and there was nothing small about it – a slight trace of hope should have still flickered to life, for did the promise of redemption not come with Sparrow – specifically, Sparrow's compass?

A little over two weeks had passed since Lord Beckett's personal assassin had approached him. The man – Mr. Mercer, if his fractured memory served him correctly – had come bearing a warning:

There was a warrant out for his arrest. Why? Apparently, that day's head start now considered a dastardly crime, one that stood one the same level as conspiring with and aiding in the escape of notorious pirates. One more reason to despise Sparrow.

The man had come bearing intriguing news, as well:

Elizabeth Swann was in jail, as was her fiancé, albeit, William Turner had been released to partake in a search for a broken compass that was in the possession of one Captain Jack Sparrow. However, shortly following Mr. Turner's departure, Elizabeth escaped from prison – presumably in search of husband-to-be – and disappeared. She had yet to be recovered.

Not only that, but Mr. Mercer had also brought with him an offer:

The Letters of Marque. A chance to regain all he had lost.

Lord Beckett had sent Turner after the compass…now, however, it appeared as though his plan would not continue as originally intended. In order to ensure the device's delivery, Lord Beckett was prepared to make the necessary alterations, which was where Tortuga came into play. He was well aware that Jack Sparrow frequented the pirate port; the man was apt to turn up eventually…

That was why _he_ was needed.

It was a simple task: When _the Black Pearl_ docked in Tortuga, he was to board her as one of the crew, after which he was to obtain the compass and then present it to Lord Beckett. Simple, almost degradingly so.

He had had questions, of course. Why did Lord Beckett desire a paltry compass? Mercer had replied that, if he cared at all about redeeming himself, then he would devote his time to procuring the compass and not concern himself with why Lord Beckett desired it. Then, should he choose to meet Beckett's demands, he could hope for atonement? Yes had been the answer; he would be allowed to return to Port Royal cleared of all charges, reinstated, respected, wealthy… He would be a commodore again, with the promise of Admiral in his future. And his past would become nothing more than an inane rumor, believed only by the very gullible, Lord Beckett would see to that.

The word 'tempting' paled in juxtaposition to what he had felt upon hearing that offer. He had wanted to agree right then and there, and came very close to doing so…but still, there had been one remaining question:

What were the consequences if he should fail?

Mercer had sneered, his teeth yellow and sinister, casually informing him that he need not worry, for if he truly craved release from his Hell on Earth, then he would not fail.

No. He would not.

He stood up.

Jou-Jou's outcry of "What'n th' hell – ?" was muffled by the nascent determination and rage that roared in his ears.

Remarkable the way even the most ludicrous notions could seem credible when one had desperation and alcohol to fuel them.

"Do you know his whereabouts?" he asked tersely.

"Who? Sparrow's?"

"_Yes,_ Sparrow – of _course_, Sparrow." He glared down at her, suddenly seething. "Do you know where he is?"

"'Course I do," she replied, as if it were common knowledge that she was Jack Sparrow's personal keeper.

Silence followed.

It took several seconds for his sluggish brain to realize that she was not about to expound any further. The little shrew… Yes, he _was _being short with her, but this was no time for her to chastise him!

"_Well?_" he demanded at last.

She blinked slowly, mockingly, her eyebrows raised.

"Do you or do you not know where one – specifically, _I_ – can locate Captain Jack Sparrow?" He asked, his voice low, curt, and deliberately slow.

"I already answered that," she said calmly, unmoved by, unaware of, or unwilling to show a reaction to his mounting choler. "You asked me if I knew, an' I told you: Yes."

A sigh escaped him, rough and exasperated through gritted teeth.

"Very well," he began with measured patience, "_where_ can I find Captain Jack Sparrow?"

Her waxy red lips twitched in what he knew was amusement.

"_The Faithful Bride_," she answered simply. "Though I must warn y'that he's lookin' t'hire people."

His eyes went wide at this.

"Don't know why," she continued, seeing that his interest had been piqued. "But from what I gathered from _him_, it's fer some shady scheme of his. An' judgin' by how he was actin', it's not gonna bode well fer anyone involved with him."

Sparrow was seeking crewmembers? What could have prompted this? Never mind; it mattered not, and he was wasting time trying to decipher the ludicrous plans of a pirate. Importance rested with the information he had just been given.

With a nod of gratitude to Jou-Jou, he strode out of _the Ring O'Bells_, his senses alive with anticipation as a plan of his own began to take shape.

۞۞۞

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, staring down at the table but not really seeing it, her vision obstructed by thoughts.

Poor James…poor bloody stupid, desperate, darling James…

She glanced up just in time to see him disappear through the double doors of the tavern.

And sighed. What was to become of him?

Curse him for being so hopelessly foolish, and curse her for caring, though, really, it had all been his doing. He hadn't _needed _to save her life, yet he had. She had known the moment she had invited him to share a room with her that, not only was she eternally in his debt, but that she had taken an interest in him as well.

Not in the normal sense, of course. She never sought him out and typically only spoke with him whenever there were no men to be had – and he certainly did not occupy her thoughts, though every now and then he _did _manage to take a brief holiday within her mind. And the unnerving aspect of this was that, as of late, his holidays had become more and more frequent.

Yes, he was quite at fault. After all, he had never pushed her away after that night, and he had had so many chances to…

Wearily, she tipped her head back and sighed again, thoroughly exasperated with him and herself.

It was so strange, their relationship – if it could even be called that. They no longer despised each other, at least…she was fairly certain that he didn't feel any animosity toward her, and, truthfully, she could not recall ever really loathing anyone. However, she was hesitant to call them friends. Their alliance lacked the warmth of friendship, yet 'acquaintances' felt too weak. It implied that, while they had met on several occasions, there was nothing between them – and she knew that to be false.

There was _something_.

It was difficult to explain, even to herself.

She wanted to treat him with kindness whenever he was near – and it was neither forced nor born out of pity for the man. It was eerily real. And once again, this was entirely his fault. If he didn't insist on being so chivalrous, so bloody _respectful_… Damn it, no one else treated her that way! Though the majority of her customers weren't cruel, there were a rare few that showed her any consideration. To them, she was just another whore, which was, she supposed, one of the reasons men found prostitutes so appealing. They had no names, no faces, no identities… A man needn't worry about being judged by a whore (so long as he paid in full). With a whore, there was no cause for propriety or manners, for kindness or respect… _She _was _not _a lady. Yet James behaved as though she were one, and not simply because he worried that he would turn into a despicable cur if he wasn't polite to her. And she, being the foolish wench that she was, _liked _him for that.

She had come to this realization the afternoon following the night they had purchased a room together. And at the time, she had thought that, certainly, no ill could come from simply _liking _the man? If she was careful to keep her distance, sporadically chat with him, perhaps seek his help if it was _absolutely_ necessary, and never let their relationship branch into the dangerous territory known as friendship.

_Well. I was certainly mistaken, wasn't I?_

She did not think herself a callous woman, though when it came to people she preferred to remain aloof. It was all for the best. Friends meant being bound to one another, and being bound meant that she cared for someone other than herself, and when one's career was prostitution, that would not do. Her life was parallel with a tiny, cramped room in that there was no space for anyone, save herself. She _could not _handle another person – not when she could barely keep her own self afloat. Yes, it was selfish to think that way, but it was the only way she _could_ think if she wanted to survive.

Although…it was not as if she looked after him, spent time with him when she could have been working, offered him a portion of her meager wages. She merely talked with him when the influx of customers had slowed to a trickle. Their conversations were…what?

She balled her hands into fists at her brain's sudden incompetence.

Perhaps there was nothing to define it? They were not companions, but they certainly weren't enemies, yet they were more than acquaintances.

Huffing inwardly, she mused that this would be made much simpler if only she knew _his _feelings on the whole affair. Yes, she decided, if she knew that _he _enjoyed her company, that he felt at ease with her, that he even looked forward to their conversations – not a lot, just a little – then she would, once and for all, be able to define…_them_.

She stilled, realizing what she had just thought, and cursed.

She had, against her will and despite all odds, become unfortunately yet undeniably attached.

And it was because of this realization that she knew that she would follow him.

There was no reason to – really, there wasn't. All she had was an ominous feeling that put her on edge, the sickening suspicion that Captain Sparrow was recruiting men for devious purposes, and the notion that James, no doubt acting on his drunken logic, was on the verge of doing something reckless.

Did that constitute as a reason to chase after him? Certainly not.

But come morning, she would hate herself for not acting on those feelings.

So it was with an aggrieved countenance and begrudging acceptance that she left _the Ring O'Bells_.

_For this, you owe me a room, James…_

۞۞۞

"An' what makes you think you're worthy t'crew _the Black Pearl?_"

He barely listened as a withered old man was taken on despite his confessing to having utterly no experience as a sailor.

His target sat several feet away, rattling that worthless compass about, glaring and muttering at it with no regard for how insane this behavior must have looked to passersby.

He ground his teeth, the blood simmering in his veins as his abhorrence mounted with each passing second.

"Me 'ave one arm an' a bum leg," one blackguard said gruffly.

"It's th' crow's nest fer you," replied a man he recognized as Joshamee Gibbs – apparently having abandoned the navy for pirating. It seemed to be a common practice, as of late.

He scoffed. As if he had a sincere desire to join a pirate crew. Had the air not been so bristled with animosity, he might have found the thought highly amusing. As it so happened, this provided the ruse he needed for his plan to succeed.

"Ever since I was little," he heard a man say wistfully, "I've always wanted to sail the seas. Forever."

He would choose his words carefully and give his account in vivid detail, relishing in the horror that would contort Sparrow's face when the pirate realized just who was speaking – what a massive error he had made upon entering his life.

"Sooner than y'think," Gibbs informed the hopeful man. "Sign the roster."

Then he would savor the rogue's panic for a moment before seeing to his death and retrieving the compass. And after that…

He racked his muggy brain for an answer, though inebriation made the search a long one.

Track down the assassin, he remembered at last…Mr. Mercer… Yes, that was what needed to be done.

"An' what's your story?"

A bitter smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Did they not know who he was, he wondered sardonically. Unsurprising. Every so often, he would catch a glimpse of him himself – or the ignoble shadow of what he once was – reflected in a window. Filthy. Beaten. Tattered. Eyes glassy and bloodshot, overly large on a gaunt face. Hair long, stringy. Wig exploding from beneath his battered hat. Drifting unsteadily, lost… Unrecognizable.

But that could change, if only he carried out Lord Beckett's orders.

It was faint, but something was growing within him – a light, weak and shivering in the cruel wind, but very much alive. Gentle warmth was radiating from the building glow, drawing him in. But he didn't dare submit, too fearful that it was nothing but a fallacy.

No. He would not begin to hope, not with the painfully real chance of failure looming above him, ready to strike. He could not allow himself to be blinded by it. He needed to force his thoughts _away _from what possibly lay ahead and concentrate on what laid before him _now_:

Sparrow.

The compass.

The promise of redemption.

He breathed deeply, and stepped forward.

۞۞۞

"Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry… _Excuse _me! …Please, don't mind me… Lady, so help me, I _will _run int'you if y'don't get out of my way… So sorry, darling, but I'm not workin' t'night. Y'can look, but don't touch…All right, that's quite enough lookin'! …Oh, fer God's sake – _move!_"

She brushed her hair from her eyes in frustration, though several wisps still clung to her flushed cheeks. Irked, she quickly searched the tavern, careful not to catch the eye of any patrons. There was no need to make them think she was giving a hint; she was only seeking one man tonight.

And there he was, standing in line with several other rabbles, though he seemed isolated from the rest of the group. It was as if some higher force had seen fit to ostracize him from the others, forcing him to remain permanently detached. And she found herself wondering if this was a recent development or if he had always been this way, standing slightly apart from the rest of society.

She began to approach him – quite unsure as to what, exactly, she was going to say to him – only to halt in her tracks several seconds later, frozen by the sound of his voice.

"_My_ story..?" he echoed almost thoughtfully, bitter irony lacing his tone. "It's exactly the same as your story…just one chapter behind. I chased a man across the seven seas… The pursuit cost me my crew, my commission, and my life."

She chewed her lower lip in confusion, eyes flicking to the man behind the table – a grizzled sailor whose name she could not recall, though she knew him to be the quartermaster on _the Black Pearl_. Right now the man was sinking back into his chair, as if in awe, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to believe what he was seeing.

When next he spoke, it was with stunned disbelief, more guessing than questioning.

"_Commodore?_"

She withheld a gasp.

"No, not anymore – weren't you _listening?_" James bit out furiously, his teeth bared. She watched as he leaned forward, now eye to eye with the older sailor, one hand partially outstretched and trembling ever so slightly, the other wound tightly around the neck of a bottle.

His next words were soft, barely audible above the din of the tavern. Even softer was the grief buried beneath them – a poignant, brittle edge that caused her breath to hitch.

"I nearly had you all off Tripoli… I would have, if not for the hurricane."

"Lord…" the quartermaster breathed, astounded. "Y'didn't try t'sail through it?"

No. He couldn't have, of that she was certain. Though she was often of the opinion that the man's intelligence was something to be questioned, the contumelies had only been invoked out of annoyance. In truth, even drunk, he came across as a man who had his wits about him.

So caught up in her thoughts was she that she nearly leapt a mile upon hearing a magnificent crash.

She blinked, aghast to see that the table had been overturned and that the quartermaster had been thrown off his stool.

A nervous hush fell over the patrons of _the Faithful Bride_; all breaths were held as the crowd pressed closer, tension building, waiting.

And in the midst of it all stood James, arms outspread, strutting about as he thoughtlessly challenged Captain Sparrow, provoking the other pirates as he did.

She closed her eyes.

_That idiot…_

There was the icy click of a pistol being cocked, and her head shot up.

James was aiming at something…a plant? A moving plant? She rolled her eyes. No, but a poorly disguised pirate captain who was most certainly about to meet his maker. After hearing his story – the guilt, the passion, the sorrow that enveloped it – she knew that James would kill the man who stood at the core of it all, and that she would think no less of him for doing so. No…all that unsettled her was why she would not hold it against him, why she would not flinch in disgust when next they met, why she would not look upon him and see the blood on his hands… Was she so glacial that she cared little if a person died and cared even less for who their killer was? Or had she some…fondness…for James that enabled her to accept, even defend his actions?

Well. Whatever the reason (and she had the most dreadful feeling that it was the latter), that did not mean that she could stand idly by while a man was murdered.

She turned her head away.

Four seconds later, a gunshot sounded and all hell broke loose.

۞۞۞

There was something about seeing a woman dressed in men's clothing, something that miffed her. Perhaps it was because she had always thought it wrong to deny one's womanhood in such a manner? Thought it may have just as easily been because it was so utterly unbecoming (after all, breeches left practically _nothing _to the imagination, and thought the same could be said for her scandalously low bodices). Then again, it was possible that it was the woman in particular who happened to be wearing the masculine attire.

Woman? Girl-child was more appropriate.

She hadn't cared for James's once-fiancée since the first he had spoken of her, the brazen young miss who had stolen his heart when he had at last left it unguarded only to throw it back at him, shattered.

The melancholy he had spoken with may have been an affect of the rum he had consumed, but that was the distinct impression she had received after he had told her the story of his rejection. And she recalled that it had irked her to know that someone had mistreated him so.

It was different from what she did for a living. Yes, if a man wanted her to love him then love him she would, but little harm came from it. She could have been an astounding actress, but, in the end, they would both know that it had all been a farce.

What that girl had done, however… it had been cruelty at its finest.

Ah, but she could not fault her, not completely. Not when the child had acted out of love – love not meant for James, but love all the same. Not when she, herself, had always – privately, secretly, within the secluded recesses of her mind – dreamt of being in love. It seemed like such a grand, marvelous thing to have happen that she could not help but fantasize. Not all the time, of course. It wasn't something she yearned for constantly, and she did not regard each customer with hope swelling within her that he might be her match. No, there was none of that silliness. But she _did _excuse a person's behavior if they were in love. Stupidity, disregard, jealously…all were forgivable when love was involved.

Besides, though clearly still hurting, the wounds left by James's fiancée _did _appear to be healing. It was more than likely that the recent bar fight was what had riled her so – and what a fight it had been!

James had not killed Captain Sparrow, thought aside from that, she knew little else of what had happened.

Her eyes had stayed shut until a body had collided with her, sending her tumbling backwards into a table. With a loud "Oh!" of alarm, she had watched with undeniable fright as man after man lunged at James – pistols, daggers, swords, all manner of weaponry poised. Several eager pairs of hands had grabbed for her – the gunshot apparently not only a signal for brawling, but for drinking, whoring, and other varieties of lively merriment as well. Too distracted by worry to think of their money, she had turned the men down, swatting at the offending hands in annoyance.

They were infuriating, bar fights – pointless, not to mention _highly _dangerous activities that reminded her of how useless she truly was, how very weak… for though she lived with cutthroats and barbarians on the vicious pit Tortuga where one was never want for murder, thievery, or rape… she felt helpless. She had no means of defense – she certainly couldn't return the blow if ever a man should strike her.

So when the fight had broken out inside _the Faithful Bride, _she, with no other options in sight, had stowed away, cowering beneath a table.

Eyes wide and alert, she had watched from her makeshift haven as James had taken on one opponent after another until, out of nowhere, there appeared a girl – for it was quite obviously a girl although she was clothed as a boy. The hoyden had helped him fend off his attackers for a time, all the wile displaying remarkable skill and agility for a woman. Yet despite her efforts, the two were eventually cornered.

Cringing, she had watched as he had faced his adversaries without fear, all the while daring them to do their worst.

She had groaned inwardly at this, silently pleading, _Oh James, _do _be quiet!_ His bravery was a thing to be admired, however, though she felt certain that the rum was responsible for much of it. Still…she could not help but think that, even unaided by alcohol, he would have been just as fearless, though hopefully a bit more sensible.

Yes, for a sensible man would have never found himself in such a situation, let alone the very center of the turmoil. A sensible man would have never allowed that girl-in-boy's-clothes to bring a bottle down over his head with a sickening smash, and would have therefore evaded further humiliation such as being thrown into a wallow with the pigs to lay, forgotten, until he regained consciousness.

Which was why she had left the safety of her table and now found herself standing in the alley behind _the Faithful Bride_. Or rather, hidden around the corner of the building. For just as she had been about to rush to his side, a figure had emerged from the departing crowd of cheerful drunkards, so she had quickly darted out of sight.

It was her – the girl from before, the one who had fought alongside him, knocked him unconscious… She had been right to think of her as a child – the girl was barely over eighteen, at the oldest – and it was difficult to tell in the gloom of the alleyway, but she imagined that the girl was very pretty (once rid of her man's clothing and given a bath).

She bit her lip as the girl reached down for James, who had just begun to regain his senses.

"James Norrington," she sighed with (highly irritating and uncalled for) disappointment. "What has a world done to you?"

He hung his head as he had after he had insulted her on that morning nearly four months ago, unable to meet the girl's eyes, and said in a voice burdened by guilt:

"Nothing I didn't deserve."

"What on Earth possessed you to act so foolishly?" the child demanded.

"Elizabeth…" he began softly and in that name there were emotions – wonder, affection, and unimaginable shame – that told of the girl's identity.

His fiancée. She had to be to invoke so much from him.

But there was no time to ponder this, for his expression suddenly changed. It was small – just a brief widening of the eyes, as if in fearful realization – and then his gaze returned to the muck, unnoticed by Elizabeth.

But _she _had noticed, and she quickly searched the alley for what it was he had seen – what had, for that tiny moment, made him panic.

And then, she saw him:

A man. Clothed all in black. Sunken cheeks and a pox-marked face. Tall, thin, yet radiating power.

Looming in the distance, he was liken to a bird of prey, ever vigilant, his eyes sharp, never leaving his target.

She suddenly felt cold.

۞۞۞

A gasp tore at his throat as his back was slammed into a wall. His head, already ailing from an earlier run-in with a bottle, throbbed as it collided with brick, filling the world with sparks, the edges of his vision going strangely red. The stench from the muck of the pigsty filled his nostrils, the burning odor assaulting his senses, making his eyes sting and bile rise.

"Mr. Norrington, have you forgotten that you have a duty to Lord Beckett?" Mercer's voice was calm for all the pressure the man was applying to his windpipe.

A strangled, gagging noise was all he could manage.

"No?" Mercer queried mockingly. "I'm afraid that I require evidence that is more convincing than that."

Finally, he could breathe again as the crushing hands loosened their grip on his neck. He coughed weakly, sputtering as he fought the blackness that threatened to consume him once again.

"Of course, if you are no longer interested in the job, my lord has several candidates that are _more _than willing to step in and take your place –"

"_No!_" he gasped – how he loathed that desperation in his voice – before regaining as much of his composure as possible and attempting to speak calmly. "You may tell your lord that such effort is unnecessary. Of course I am prepared to take part in his plans."

"Are you?" Mercer pressed. "You see, _I _am not prepared to believe that after your episode in the tavern –"

"A mistake," he said sharply. "One that will not be repeated."

"You would be wise to keep your word," the man warned, "or it _will _be a bad lookout for you."

That said, Mercer promptly released his hold on him and turned away.

Only when the crunch of boots against gravel had faded completely did he allow himself to retch.

Sweating, shaking, he pressed his forehead to the cool brick, hoping for some form of solace, though expecting none.

_Soon_, he told himself. _Soon it will all be in the past_.

"James?"

_Elizabeth? _his weary mind wondered. He hoped not; she needn't see him in an even more humiliating state. He had sent her away shortly after he had seen Mercer lurking in the shadows, watching them. He had assured her that he would be with her momentarily, that he simply had several matters to see to before he departed. She had been confused (and not entirely convinced) but still she had obeyed. So who, then...?

The answer presented itself in the form of an alarmingly thin young woman with a wild mass of curls, garish makeup, and a dark, probing gaze.

Jou-Jou.

He felt himself relax slightly.

The tart looked as if she dearly wanted to inquire about his health, but instead she pursed her lips together, eyeing him in annoyance.

"I lost a lot of customers t'night b'cause of you."

"I'm sorry for that," he replied, and there was no sarcasm to be found. He meant those words, for he knew that there was a chance that she would go hungry that night, and recently he had come to concern himself with the idea of her not eating – her frame was truly a painful sight to behold.

"No harm done – _really_," she assured him, catching his doubt. "Th' night is young. I've plenty of time t'find a buyer."

He nodded, wincing as the movement caused his head to ache.

"Will y'be all right?" she asked. Then, quietly, "I saw what they did…"

"I'll recover," he said distantly, more to himself than to her. "Once I board the ship… I'll be fine."

"Oh." She looked down, appearing surprised. "So…so you're really doin' it, then? You're leavin' me."

Seeing his expression – an amalgam of confusion, curiosity, and mud – she gave a weak laugh.

"Well, not _me _exactly, but…th' island."

"Yes," he confirmed. "I have a duty to uphold, one that I do not believe you could begin to understand – and no, that was not a remark against your intelligence," he added quickly.

"Oh, I don't blame you, lovey. Lord knows, if I had th' chance, _I'd _be out of this Godfersaken place," she informed him, though in spite of her air of nonchalance, he felt…guilty – almost as if he was deserting her, like he was a captain abandoning his ship when he was meant to stay and go down with it.

"Jus'…swear you'll look after yerself – not t'say I did much good takin' care of you, but…well we both know y'can be right foolish at times." She smirked slightly. "A former commodore prancin' around in front of a bunch of pirates?"

"You heard," he stated flatly, quite unsure of what to make of this.

"Yeah," she replied. "Though, t'be honest, I shoulda put two an' two t'gether a long time ago – th' stories I'd hear, fact that you're a Navy man –"

_"Was_," he corrected acidly.

"Right, was…" she amended, eyes downcast.

An awkward silence.

"I must be off, I'm afraid," he said at last, wanting to fill the void that lay between them.

"Oh. Yes. I s'ppose y'should…"

He hesitated, feeling that it would be wrong to leave so abruptly, but uncertain of anything else.

"James?"

Ah. And there was Elizabeth, standing before them with impatience he still found endearing and staring in shock at the prostitute that stood across from him. Suddenly turning her gaze to him, she said in an undertone and with a disapproving scowl:

"Really, James, I wouldn't have expected this to be the kind of company _you _would keep."

"Jus' as _I_ wouldn't have expected _you _t'be th' kinda company he'd keep," Jou-Jou cut in before he could form an excuse, eyeing the other woman's breeches with an expression of utmost distaste.

More bewildered than offended, Elizabeth gaped at Jou-Jou for a moment before fixing him with an imploring glare.

"James, I do hate to rush you, but we really _must _leave. In order to help Will, I need to find Jack — and he does not even know that I'm _here_. I highly doubt that he will wait for you to report for duty, therefore we need to find him as soon as possible – he could set sail at any time!"

She was right, of course, and in order to obtain the compass, he needed to be near Sparrow, yet… He looked down at Jou-Jou, who was still surveying Elizabeth with a critical eye.

"Then we must make haste," he told Elizabeth. "However, I must first clear up a matter with this young lady, here – " He indicated to the strumpet. "It shall take no more than a minute, but, should I exceed that time, I wish for you to go along without me. I am sure that you are in more need of Sparrow than I."

Elizabeth was silent for a moment in which a million emotions could be seen shining brightly in her lovely brown eyes.

_Enough_, he told himself fiercely. _She loves Turner – and look at you! Better that she marry him than I, for I would have brought her nothing but misery and ill fortune…_

At last, she nodded in understanding. Then, with one last confused look at the prostitute, she allowed them their privacy.

"I haven't much time," he began hastily, turning back to Jou-Jou.

"I'll do this quickly, then," she replied, raising herself up on her toes.

It was so swift that at first he thought he had imagined it. But no. When she pulled away, mud was smeared across her lips – a telltale mark from when she had kissed him on the cheek.

It was unlike anything he had been expecting – _expecting?_ What? He hadn't been expecting _that!_ He hadn't been expecting _anything! _Least of all something so gentle, so…chaste…and so very sweet…very unlike her…

He was still trying to comprehend what had just happened when she raised her hand to her lips and pulled it away.

Her fingers were spotted with grime.

Automatically, not listening as she smiled and told him that it was nothing, he reached inside his sopping coat to retrieve a handkerchief.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, sounding almost delighted. "This is onna mine!"

"Is it?" he asked, still feeling a bit dazed. He eyed the bit of cloth closely, noting the stains and frayed edges, two of which were naked, stripped completely of their ratty lace. "Oh. So it is."

"I'd fergottin I'd given it t'you…"

"It would seem, so did I…"

"No matter," she said, tucking the tattered bit of fabric back into his hand and folding his fingers around it. "Y'can keep it."

He looked at her sharply.

"What?"

She gave a careless little shrug.

"Somethin' t'r'member me by – y'will do that fer me, won't you? R'member me?"

He looked into her dark eyes, at the seemingly raw emotion being emitted from a woman who distanced herself from so many…yet, he realized, had allowed herself – _was_ allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of him for a third time.

She trusted him.

And that was the cause for this feeling of abandonment.

Guilt was anchoring him down, trying to force him to stay aboard his ship…but he could not. They both knew that. She would not blame him for taking his chance and running with it. It was as she always said: One had to be selfish in order to survive.

It was for the best, he was certain that it was.

It would all be for the best.

"James?" she asked softly.

He looked into her eyes as he ran his thumb over the dirty piece of cloth, and answered her as truthfully as he could:

"I'm afraid…that it would be impossible not to."

**– FINIS –**

Yes, this is officially the end – well, not the _end_, end. But the end of this part of their story. I have a sequel, of sorts, in mind – one that is set during _At World's End_, though it will not, of course, end the way themovie did. It's basically our dear reinstated Commodore-turned-Admiral's side of the story. And, yes, Jou-Jou shall return, though I hope you all like the turn I've taken with her character (and I don't just mean pairing her with James, either). While I like what I have planned for her, I am hesitant to go with it because you guys seem to love her as she is. This is rather difficult to explain without giving anything away. I'm basically worried that in the next story Jou-Jou will come off as OOC or even Mary-Sueish – my typical concerns, I know, but this time I sincerely think that this _will _be the case, especially since I've put her in a completely new setting in which she will have to act accordingly.

I hope that my characterizations of Jack, Liz, and Mercer were accurate. Also, I'm concerned that James's and Jou-Jou's interactions in this chapter made sense – keep in mind that they've spent four months together, so things will have definitely changed. I'm very worried about all of this, so please don't hesitate to let me know what you think.

**Notes **

"Pirate Hunter" – I've always gotten the feeling that James, while proud that he was a pirate's arch nemesis in the eastern Caribbean, would have either blushed or rolled his eyes at being called this, depending on who said it and how it was said.

Queer – I adore using this word instead of 'strange' or 'weird,' but am so annoyed that I can't use it in public without someone automatically assuming I'm speaking ill of homosexuals. Does anyone else feel this way, or is it just me?

"Captain Sparrow!" – isn't it interesting how, when everyone else always forgets to, _she _calls him by his proper title? Remember, Jou-Jou's willing to do anything to make a man happy, so, whether he has a ship or not, if Jack wants to be called "Captain," then that's what she'll call him.

The man flinched – mind you, I'm characterizing Captain Jack according to his behavior in _Dead Man's Chest_ in which he _was _incredibly edgy.

…something about eunuchs – while I have not yet discovered an answer behind Jack's penchant for mentioning eunuchs, I _do _know that he (or at least, my version) prefers to be on top because it makes it easier to get away should the person he's with decide to go Laurana Bobbit on him and pull out the scissors.

"As much as it pains me t'do so, dearest…" – I get the feeling that it really _would _pain him to turn her down and that he was probably thinking, "_Damn you, Davy Jones, keepin' me from gettin' laid!_" all the while. Remember, this isn't Jou-Jou's magical Mary-Sueness that's doing this; it's Jack's horniness.

_The Faithful Bride_ – is this an actual tavern in the movie, or is it just one that's been adopted by the fandom? I'm only asking because I've come across this place in several fics but have yet to stumble across it anywhere else (that, and I always forget to check whenever I watch the move.)

… this once vivacious, colorful, enigmatic man had lost some of his luster – which was how I think a lot of us saw Captain Jack in _Dead Man's Chest_. Even Depp himself said that the character was much darker. This isn't a jibe at the movie or the character; just an observation.

"Odd fer anybody, ducky" – this is fairly unimportant, but I'm in love with the idea of somebody – anybody – calling James 'ducky.' No idea why, either.

…his ruination wasn't _entirely _Sparrow's fault? – it was rather difficult to come up with reasons as to why James would blame Jack for his downfall, especially when James (or at least, my version) is feeling so incredibly guilty. In the end, I came up with as many fathomable reasons as I could, and blamed the rest on the rum. ;)

Lord Beckett's personal assassin had approached him – I've always thought that there was a reason why James decided to join Jack's crew aside from "Grr, I'm drunk and _he's _the reason for all my problems! Now I'll be able to kill him!" What's really funny, is that I recently read that there is a deleted scene from _Dead Man's Chest _in which Mercer approaches James and strikes a deal with him – and I've had this idea for _months _now. :D

…that day's head start now considered a dastardly crime – this was the main thing, I think, that made me side with James in DMC. He, the infamous Pirate Hunter, was a nice guy and let Jack go at the end of CotBP, acknowledging that pirates _could _be decent people. And then was happened? That act of kindness came back and bit him – hard. Both saddening_ and _unfair.

Her waxy red lips twitched – I know I'm not the only one who, upon reading this, pictures those big, red lips that kids wear on Halloween.

"An' what makes you think you're worthy t'crew _the Black Pearl?_" – oddly, unlike Chapter III, I have no qualms about using lines from the movie in this chapter. Though this may be because this is actually meant to take place when the words were said, whereas that chapter just recycled the line "I can't breathe." All of you seemed to enjoy that bit, though, for which I am extremely relieved.

He couldn't have, of that she was certain – see? _She _knows that he's too smart and practical to do something so stupid. I think I'm going to have to go with the "The storm crept up on them, they got stuck in it, and there was nothing they could do except try to ride it out, yet James blames himself because he was in charge and that's just what he _does_" theory.

She hadn't cared for James's once-fiancée – let it be known, here and now, that Jou-Jou's feelings toward Elizabeth do _not _reflect my own. I liked Elizabeth in the first movie and still retained some of that liking for her in the second, though I'll admit that I do not agree with several (make that many) of her actions (and I'm not just talking about the seemingly random J/E). However, in the third installment, I found that my dislike for the character outweighed my like for her, though, after reading several opinions on AWE, I find that I am not alone in thinking of the movie as being "the Elizabeth Show." Really, though, it's not the character I'm upset with; rather, it's the _writers_. But I've several issues with them at the moment. Moving on, in Jou-Jou's defense, you will find that there are very few women that she actually likes, and that she despises childishness in general – and she most _definitely _sees Elizabeth as being childish.

…activities that reminded her of how useless she truly was – and so we realize see that, despite her place of residence, Jou-Jou is not the rough 'n tough girl some may believe. Or maybe you guys never saw her that way? In any case, there is definitely a reason why she doesn't know how to fight – aside from the fact that we already have _one _sword-fighting chick in the story and I don't feel that another is necessary. Think about it – it's the 1700s and she's a _woman_. That pretty much says it all. Most – make that at least ninety-nine percent during that era – did not know how to fire a pistol, wield a sword, or even use her fists properly. It doesn't matter that Jou-Jou lives on Tortuga because it would just be illogical for her to know how to fight.

…the girl was barely over eighteen – I'm going by how old Keira was when she began filming the first movie (seventeen, I believe) and tacking on a year because apparently that's how much time has passed since the events of _Curse of the Black Pearl _took place.

…she sighed with (highly irritating and uncalled for) disappointment – Jou-Jou's kind of like a violent, extremely defensive Norrington fangirl, isn't she?

"Nothing I didn't deserve." – from what I've read, supposedly he really does say this in the movie, but the scene was cut short in editing. As were a lot of James's scenes, apparently. It would seem that Disney is unaware that James has an abundance of fangirls, for I imagine, had they known this, AWE wouldn't have worked out the way it did. Or, at the very least, James would have had more screen time. XP

But _she _had noticed… - I'm not certain if you could call this symbolism or not. Perhaps it's more like foreshadowing than symbolism, since Jou-Jou tends to notice James more than anybody (or at least, more than Elizabeth). She also, I believe, would _know _him, the actual man behind the uniform, better than others. This isn't because she has clichéd, hypersensitive intuition, but because when she meets him, he is no longer a commodore and therefore no longer has to put up a stoic front, as is evident by his behavior in DMC. She sees him one way, the way he truly is – self-abusive and vulnerable, yet struggling to remain righteous – whereas most others view him as a cold, impassive commander.

…stripped completely of their ratty lace – I recently watched the part of my _Dead Man's Chest _Bonus Features DVD where they tell us all about Captain Jack, and was very intrigued to learn that the bit of lace he wears around his wrist was given to him by a woman he once knew. Now, who this woman was has yet to be determined (and I'm sure it isn't Jou-Jou, unless I was right and Disney really _is _monitoring my thoughts) but I thought it would be a nifty idea to play with nonetheless. Thus, I made a point of mentioning the missing hanky edge in this chapter.

…allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of him – I find that I like this better than the typical "_he _was letting his guard down in front of _her_" scenario.

… for a third time – I'm worried that this might seem a bit vague, so just to clarify: the first time was right after he saved her from being crushed to death and the second was when he watched her sleep.

**THE FINAL Simple Request/Reminder from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


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